Morphalite Syndrome
by Fairytale Warrior
Summary: It started with a brawl and a half-charged blast of plasma. Sample: "All he could say for sure, was no-one [...] had been aware of the danger until it smacked Peter upside the head. Metaphorically, of course. Literally, it was the heated, still-capsuled mass of energy that slammed into his back, buried through his subcostal nerve, and into the kidney beneath." *Rating may change.
1. Hustvedt

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

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><p>"<em>Every sickness has an alien quality, a feeling of invasion and loss of control that is evident in the language we use about it."<em>

― Siri Hustvedt, The Shaking Woman, or A History of My Nerves

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><p>-Hustvedt-<p>

_[20:23 – Wed. – SY: XXXX]_

_[Knowhere – Upper Division – Dublu's Bar]_

_[-1 month after the events of _Cephalagia.-_]_

_[Peter]_

The bar was rowdy, as bars on Knowhere tended to be at this hour- or any hour for that matter. There was the sound of alien glassware clinking and clonking together, the bubbly laughter of a phylum cnidarian several tables away, the strange yet upbeat dance music playing throughout the room to set the guests moving. A sweet scent filled the air, tickling his nose and intoxicating several of the less resilient occupants the room housed. It made Peter feel like the hairs in his nose were curling but, judging by the reaction of an albino lizard-person a few seats away the incense was doing its job fairly well. Dim multicolored lights illuminated parts of the room and cast others in a gloom, providing an intoxicating dance of shadows across the slim women pole dancing for their audience on the other side of the bar.

Peter Jason Quill looked left and located a team of Skrulls wooing their ladies. He looked right and saw a group of Xandarians, Dedarians, and Arcturans playing a holographic, alien version of Koi Koi.

Uproarious laughter broke the warm, polluted evening air and turned him in his seat, catching sight of Drax sharing conversation with a few Centaurians across the room. Smiling softly to himself Peter returned his attention to the bar tender. He watched as the Rigelian pulled a bottle of something filled with a deep brown color off the shelf and popped the cork out of place. A familiar fizzing sound erupted from the substance as it was poured from its container into a square glass.

"Best watch yourself, buddy," the man- he presumed- warned and passed him the sloshing drink, "this is pretty potent stuff to some species." But Peter just gave him a cocky smirk, pressed the glass to his lips and downed it straight.

"I think you'll find that I'm not one of those species," he said, raising his now-empty-glass cheekily. The Coke left a light burning sensation at the back of his throat that opened a floodgate of nostalgia, memories of his childhood sobering his shit-eating grin and giving his eyes a look of distance. Nights he'd spent on the porch with his mother sipping at a shared bottle and listening to the crickets chirp tugged at his heart.

He shook his head to lose the memory and held his glass towards the skeptical bar tender. As much as he would have loved to down a little alcohol Peter still had to pilot the _Milano _when they were done here so he could get to his next job. Gamora had decided to look after the ship and mulch Groot while Quill delivered the fruits of their latest raid to a wealthy, stern-faced buyer in a more civilized quadrant of Knowhere. And while he'd done so, Drax and Rocket had decided to take the evening out at a bar.

_Honestly, _he thought, sparing a glance at the destroyer, _that trade took way too long. _Another thought suddenly occurred to him and he perked up, searching for a familiar raccoon-sized comrade. The blond leader found Rocket a moment after his second serving of Coke was set in front of him. He was standing on a table whistling at the dancing ladies, encouraging them to take their performance a step further.

From the way he was wobbling Peter could see his furry comrade was even more drunk than Drax. And of course, Quill would have to be the one to drag them both back to the ship. Despite this he couldn't help the smile on his face from appearing, glad to see his friends so relaxed. After all the work they'd been putting through on each job they deserved an easy night, especially after a day like the one they'd had. Content, Peter closed his eyes and lifted his glass to his lips. This time he took a shy sip, wanting to make the drink last. He could feel the bartender's eyes on him.

Eventually the Rigelian said, "That fella over there, you know him?"

Opening his eyes and trying not to yawn, tired from the day's events, Peter cast his attention in the direction his server had gestured. He found himself looking at Rocket again, only this time the raccoon was busy arguing with one of the Skrulls he'd caught sight of earlier. A little amused despite himself he watched the hybrid's fur puff out, his ears pull back, and whiskers splay out in front of his muzzle, beady red eyes twinkling aggressively and lips curled back. The threat his friend posed was a little offset by his unsteady paws, however.

"I might," Peter began elusively, taking another sip of his cola.

The Rigelian picked up a dirty glass and began to clean it, "You'd best keep a good eye on 'im, then. Any damages he causes I expect to be paid for in full."

Images of what happened the last time he'd allowed Rocket to get drunk without any kind of supervision played through his mind like a horror story. Splintered wood, shattered wares, wasted alcohol, and a _very _upset patron had sucked Peter dry of all money he'd had that day. Word must have gone around since then. Or maybe it was just that Rocket was a very aggressive drunk and it didn't take a genius to know that he was trouble.

"Right, I'll go reign him in then," Peter assured with a heavy sigh, stepping away from the counter and heading towards his comrade.

"I'll be watchin'" the alien warned him.

By this point the tension around Rocket was so thick it was almost palpable. The other three Skrull had now decided to join their 'friend' and insisted on trying to argue with a very drunk raccoon. Peter arrived just in time to lay a hand on the aggressive Skrull's scaly shoulder, stopping him from pulling his plasma blaster out of its holster.

"Easy there big fella, let's not get too carried away, yeah?" He was met with a threatening growl as a response. A little sluggishly the creature shook his hand away.

"You are with him?" one of the buff Skrull's shorter buddies demanded, shouldering his way to the front of his rag-tag group and gesturing to Rocket.

"Aaah, Quill, 'ol buddy 'ol pal o' mine! Tooook ya long 'nuff ta get 'ere, dinya?" Rocket greeted him drunkenly.

"You could say that I am," Peter shrugged, not really paying his comrade's remark any notice, "I'm kind of like his babysitter tonight." _That was supposed to be Drax's job, _he cast a regretful look at the blue giant a few meters away. Then things really got aggressive and he was lifted up by the front of his coat until only the tips of his toes kept him from choking.

"Then we'll hold you responsible for his actions!" the green, pointy-eared goliath bellowed.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Peter shouted back, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace, "what the heck is your deal man?!"

"This vermin," the Skrull gestured to Rocket with a gun in his hand, "tried to take my woman!" He spoke so forcefully that spittle rained out of his mouth and speckled the blond Terran's face. From within the shadows over the aggressive male's shoulder, Quill spotted what he assumed was the guy's "woman". And she'd begun flirting with her next patron of the night _flawlessly_. Both his eyebrows shot up and he had to bite his tongue from giving a surly reply.

"I just ask'd 'er ta be meh wifey," the wobbling rodent chuckled and for a moment Peter was honestly concerned his gun-toting maniac had drunk so much he'd poisoned himself. He then proceeded to point in the general direction of their audience, "hey," he slurred, "quit chur laughin'!"

"Rocket, we've been over this; you're drunk. No-one's laughing at you," Peter reminded him.

"Yeah, and Mr. No-one c'n shuv it up 'is ass, too," Rocket nodded in groggy agreement. The motion appeared to be too much for whatever was in charge of his balance, however, as the rodent proceeded then to fall on his butt and laugh at himself.

Before Quill could attempt to correct his friend something small, warm, and cylindrical was pressed against his chest.

"You tryna' ignore me, fella?" the big-boss Skrull asked. A rancid odor spewed across Peter's face and this time he just couldn't help himself.

"Believe me, I wouldn't be able to even if I tried," he coughed. The big muscled male took a moment trying to decide if he was offended, dunk, angry, confused, or all of the above- judging by the colorful array of expressions that crossed his fugly face.

"You think I'm messing around, Terran-scum?" the beast demanded, and the cylinder pressed against Peter's belly dug in a little deeper, "I wonder how you'd look with your pretty organs splayed across the floor."

For a moment Peter just blinked at him, inwardly incredulous. Was this seriously happening to him today? After losing the majority of his pay on damage control, gas for the _Milano_, food for Drax, getting practically robbed by Yondu, suffering from an irritatingly stubborn headache just on the cusp of migraine territory, and discovering that Rocket had built the simple equivalent of a shatter grenade using irreplaceable parts of his Walkman cassette player (among various things) Peter had already decided the day couldn't get any worse.

The gun pressed into his chest said differently, however.

He hadn't really thought about it before the words were already out of his mouth, "Probably prettier than yours." Instinct was probably the only thing that saved him from getting shot through the heart as he swung to the side to avoid a blue blast of plasma. Lifting his legs he shoved both feet hard against the Skrull's vulnerable belly, throwing him back and forcing him to release his hold.

See, this was the other reason he couldn't get drunk tonight.

The three other Skrull didn't waste any time in following up with several attacks of their own. He was pretty damn glad at that moment that he hadn't allowed Rocket to bring any weapons with him as he dropped to one hand and swung both legs out on a wide arc. This swept the feet out from under Skrull #2 and he came crashing down to the ground with a loud _bang. _With training and skill put into the motion he set himself back on his feet, kicking a multi-blaster cannon out of the downed creature's grip and into his own hand. Skrull # 4 chose this moment to charge him and Peter retaliated by pushing the blaster into the crook of his throat- where the jaw met the neck- and pulled the trigger. Green, gooey blood and grisly brain matter flew back out the exit point of the blast and the male fell.

At this point Skrull #2 had regained his footing and pulled free another blaster. He shot at Peter just as Peter shot at him. Both males lost their weapons but only Peter was really prepared to make up for its absence.

From closer range Skrulls # 3 and 2 ran up to him. Bunching up his muscles the StarLord leapt over the first of them, feeling he was too close to have enough time to retaliate, and landing on the Skrull behind him knee-to-the-face first. As Skrull # 2 fell, clutching at his broken nose, Peter landed, rolled between two tables, and jerked back to his feet. Skrull #3 brandished an electrified spear and attempted to stab the blond with it. With a grace belied by his cocky-attitude, he dodged to the side, running his sleeved forearm against the shaft. With his right hand he punched the Skrull in the throat then lowered his fist and grabbed the creature's shirt. He yanked him down so the overly aggressive individual was bent over. Taking a small step forward Peter rolled over the other's exposed back, gaining a little momentum between tables as Skrull #2 came back with a plasma blade held above his head.

Peter's hand shot out and grabbed the guy's arm, ripping it to the side and kicking him in the chest. As the skinny Skrull was sent tumbling backwards into splintering tables, Quill shifted and wrapped his right hand around the blade's hilt, yanking it out of its owner's grip. When Skrull #1 charged him he pivoted and shoved the blade through the large creature's stomach with a grunt. An extra push sent the dying male to the floor and freed Peter's hands.

This left him with Skrulls 3 and 2. Already blood pooled across the floor, brain matter speckled what tables hadn't been broken to pieces, and half the bar had emptied out.

A quick glance around told him that Drax was no-where to be seen but the two remaining Skrulls weren't about to let him search any further. He just barely heard the bar tender's miserable cry of; "I told you _not _to destroy anything, _didn't I?!_"

He ducked to the side, a laser pulse roaring above him and smashing into a wall on the other side of the room. Skrull #2 approached with his buddy's electric spear in hand, a savage growl crinkling his face. Peter grabbed a chair- really the best thing he had right now- and deflected the blow. With both his hands in use holding the other at bay he used his foot to kick his opponent away. Out of his peripheral vision he finally saw Drax edging towards his fight.

"Drax," he shouted, dropping down and turning to the left, "get Rocket out of here before someone blasts his damn head off!" He didn't have any clue where the raccoon had dropped at this point but he knew his comrade wasn't in any condition to fight. Skrull #3 had a similar idea to Skrull #2, his arm raised with the plasma blade from before held within his grasp. Peter surged upwards, grabbed the creature's arm and twisted it behind him. A yank in just the right spot dislocated the limb enough for him to force the creature to stab himself in the back.

As he'd done before, he left the weapon embedded where it was and readied himself for the next attack.

"I can not find him!" came Drax's announcement, "where is our furry companion?"

"Hell if I know!" Peter shot back, pivoting and ducking his upper body down as Skrull #2 used his empty shatter grenade cannon to attempt to clobber him over the head, "start checking under tables or something, man!" As the downward arc Skrull #2 made lowered from right to left, Peter rolled his upper body back up to its former position, filling the empty space that the gun had formerly occupied on the right. With both of Skrull #2's hands currently in use he had no way to protect himself. With both of Peter's hands free he was able to reach up and snap the creature's neck with one swift movement.

_There- _his thought was cut off a moment later when yet _another _Skrull came up behind him with his own metal staff in hand. _Where the fuck are these guys coming from?! _He asked himself, wanting to wrack his brain for a memory of seeing more Skrull than those at the table. Meanwhile, the staff buzzed with an energy Peter knew had the power to stun an opponent's muscles with a hard enough smack. Skrull #5 swung his staff from the side, aiming for the right end of Peter's rib cage- hoping to stop his heart with a strict enough blow.

But years of brutal training with Yondu and his deranged crew had not been fruitless and the blond pivoted in a tight circle, moving completely around Skrull #6 as he attempted to ambush him from behind. As he passed the poor fool's right arm, Peter grabbed his wrist and forced it upwards. Shoving the creature so his underarm was completely exposed, he listened to the sickening _crack _as Skrull #5's buzzing staff slammed into Skrull _# _6's vulnerable side. The smaller green creature crumpled to the floor, almost taking Peter with him before he could disentangle himself from his stocky limbs.

_Finally _deciding to chance reaching for one of his own blasters, Peter ripped his weapon from its holster and in one smooth motion stepped forward. As he had done before, he jammed the gun into the crook of the Skrull's neck and pulled the trigger, blasting through the unfortunate fool's throat. With green blood speckling his front Peter whirled around, blocked, and reached forward to yank a small dirk from Skrull #7's boot. He proceeded to shoot him in the foot and then smash his gun over the top of the creature's head when the male bent forward in pain.

"Drax," he called, "what's your progress with Rocket look like?!"

He got no answer as Skrull #8 charged in from the left and Peter pivoted, ripping the dirk along the green male's exposed throat and dropping him in an instant. Getting a little caught on something, he stumbled back, glancing over his shoulder just in time to notice Skrull #9 lining him up with his sights. He ducked just in time for a blast of blue plasma to go soaring over his head. The reputable StarLord twisted around on his the balls of his feet, cranked back his left arm, and hurled the dirk at Skrull #9. With a solid _thunk _the blade buried itself into the center of the bald creature's forehead.

Skrull #10 and 11, two very buff, muscular creatures, decided now was the best time to run at him from both sides. Looking left and then right, realizing only one hand was armed and the other was empty, Peter did the first thing his brain could imagine doing.

He stepped forward.

Both males crashed together, forced into one another by their own weight and momentum. Drax just helped a little by showing up behind Peter, grabbing a head with each hand, and _smashing _them together so hard the half Terran could hear the skulls shatter.

Panting he whirled around and saw the situation already handled. Looking between the destroyer and the bodies for a moment Peter nodded and swallowed thickly.

"Thanks," he said, breathless.

Drax gave a curt nod in reply, surveying the damage with a somewhat confused look on his face. At least he wasn't as drunk as Rocket.

"What reason was there for this battle, comrade?" he asked with a slight slur.

"Oh," Peter huffed, looking around at the green bodies lying on the floor and wracking his brain for the appropriate answer, "Uh, self-defense?" Seemingly bewildered by his riposte, Drax lifted his head and gave him one of the most incredulous looks he'd received from him since he'd last used the metaphor 'two birds with one stone'. He was spared from whatever remark lay on the tip of the warrior's tongue, however, when Rocket stumbled back into the demolished joint- seemingly thrown out the door.

"'ey," he slurred, "wa' happened? Wha' party did I miss?"

To this day Peter wouldn't be able to explain how he overlooked Skrull #6 rising, apparently, from the dead. He wouldn't be able to tell you why he didn't hear the charging gun, the shifting of muscle and clothing. Perhaps it was the bar tender extracting himself from under the safety of his breakfast bar and beginning one helluva angry tirade, listing off all the things he was going to make Peter pay for. Maybe he was distracted by Drax, who came up beside him and continued on towards a very dizzy Rocket. Hell, it could even have been the yellow-skinned dancer who caught his eye off to the left, hiding under the protection of a table with eyes as wide as dinner plates.

He'd never really know.

All he could say for sure, was no-one but that stripper had been aware of the danger until it smacked Peter upside the head.

Metaphorically, of course.

Literally, the first blast of semi-charged plasmic matter was what caught him by surprise. It was the heated, still-capsuled mass of energy that slammed into his back, buried through his subcostal nerve, and into the kidney beneath. The half-failed blast was so powerful Peter's body jerked violently forward, making him stumble so much he almost fell face first. At first he thought he'd simply been pushed.

Confused, his mind was halfway through a disgruntled thought of; _okay, who the hell- _and he was in the middle of turning around. That's when the second blast hit him in the side; tearing through flesh, muscle, nerve, and stopping just short of searing through his appendix.

At first no-one said a thing.

But it wasn't silent. Blood poured freely from Peter's wounds, soaking through his clothing and dripping onto the tile below. Every breath he took, every beat his heart made, echoed inside him, and a ringing in his ears made itself known. What surprised him first was that he didn't feel any pain at all, though there was a little voice in the back of his head telling him that he was going into shock. He pressed a shaky hand into his side, feeling himself tilting slightly and trying not to stumble as blood oozed between his quivering fingers. When he peeled his hand away it was, of course, covered with grisly crimson.

"Pete?" Rocket's voice was confused and unsure, his drunken brain struggling to piece together what had happened. His blond-haired leader looked over at him, eyes looking a little foggy.

"Well," he rasped, the muscles in his back rippling through a violent and painful spasm, "_fuck."_

It wasn't long after he said this that the roar of blood through his ears was so loud he was hardly aware of his own body any more. Adrenaline kept him standing for a moment longer, leaving Drax enough time to roar with rage and rip Peter's gun from off the ground- how'd that get there?- and shoot the d'astard-Skrull in the face.

Something hard cracked against his knees and then against his face a second later. It took Peter a minute to realize it was the ground.

His vision was becoming too blurry to make sense of, like he was trying to look through a window covered in steam. Any and all sound his brain was able to process echoed so much it was hardly worth the effort it took to understand it. He was sleepy, exhausted even, which wasn't necessarily new when he thought about it. He'd been tired the moment he stepped into the bar.

"_-uill!" _A familiar, deep voice was trying to get his attention. But he didn't have the energy to turn his head any more. It was like someone had taken his brain out and filled the space left behind with rocks. Peter faintly registered a strange, guttural choking sound in the distance and voices. Voices he knew that he should recognize but found himself unable to place.

The lower left side of his back began to feel hot and inflamed, like lit briquettes were being shoved forcefully into the wound. When the feeling was echoed on the opposite side of his torso, around the right side of his pelvis, he knew he was descending into hell.

A cold, hot, bitter hell.

And he thought, with a dying smirk on his lips; _about fuckn' time._

"_**Pete!**__"_

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><p><em>Warning: Information in this story is subject to change.<em>

_If you liked this chapter leave me an O, if you hated it leave me an X. _

_If there is anything you would like to add about the battle scene in particular I would love to read your thoughts._

_Cheers!_


	2. Cepeda

_Please excuse me, I am not a doctor in any way. Any medical information you find in this chapter has the potential to be wrong. I am researching what I can but I doubt there won't be a few hiccups here and there. _

_I also apologize for any errors you find. I do not have a beta [and I have the disadvantage of being ADD. *cringe*]_

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

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><p>"<em>The hospital room was as cold as dead skin, the hallway crowded with lost souls and reeking of illness."<em>

― Raquel Cepeda,_ Bird of Paradise: How I Became Latina_

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><p>-Cepeda-<p>

_[?]_

_[Knowhere - ?]_

_[Peter]_

Pain was a funny thing.

Well, not really, _funny_ but interesting.

Activated by a source of stimulation, either internal or external, the receptors on the ends of the nerves nearest where this stimulation took place were usually the ones responsible for cataloging it and proceeding to send it up the nerve where it would arrive in the main nervous system and, ultimately, the brain. When something was damaged, the wounded area of the body would send out chemical substances known as "second messengers". According to Terran biology when nerve endings sense the presence of these in their vicinity they typically activate their pain centers in response.

So it is quite clear that nerves are pretty important. And so Peter's first expectation to having one of said nerves nearly _obliterated _would likely have been; "Oh, well, that's gone. No more pain there."

He would have been wrong.

_Very, very, wrong._

He couldn't remember feeling pain, at first. Only that he felt like something prickly was touching his back and the right side of his pelvis. It was not unlike that feeling humans often got after a limb fell asleep, like hundreds of blunt needs were constantly moving over the skin. But then, as the seconds ticked by, his pain got worse and worse. The prickling sensation became more and more pronounced until it was suddenly unbearable. And then, like a freight train, it hit him full force.

A scream unlike any other he'd ever heard unleashed rent the air. It echoed around him, made his heart race and body quiver. There was a strangely distant sloshing sound, the patter of footsteps, and babble of voices he couldn't understand. There was a loud _bang_ followed by what might have been familiar voices, shouting, and he couldn't understand.

He couldn't understand….

He didn't know what was happening, he hardly knew who he was, where he was, what was going on.

Strange clicks and warbles, whirring sounds and the guttural choke of foreign machinery filled the space around him. He wanted to know- he _needed _to know. Maybe if he knew he was still alive, that this pain wasn't permanent, he'd-

All thought was cut off as another wave of agony threw him under and he choked as though beneath a wave. His chest was cold, there was something _inside _his back- _he wanted to die. _

_Pain, pain, pain- nothing but __**pain**__. _

Another scream, this one fainter than the last, ripped through him so physically it made him cold, like all perception of warmth flew out into the air with it. He tried to breathe, to lessen the fiery ache in his chest, but his lungs froze up and failed him. He tried to move, to lash out at whatever must have been tearing him in two but nothing- _no-one_ – would listen to him. Violent nausea rushed through him like a charging animal and bile was ripped from his throat, thrown over his chin and naked neck. The warmth oozed over his shivering skin but was quickly wiped away by something soft.

The voices got a little louder.

He tried thrashing a little harder.

_Beepbeepbeepbe—beepbeepbeepep_

There was a ringing in his ears, a mechanical scree that seemed to split his head into pieces. He bared his teeth and chucked out his chin, arching his back and wailing when his pain only got more severe.

_Badideabadideabadideabadidea!_

Had they even _tried _to give him something for the pain?!

Like a puppet who's master had dropped the strings he fell completely limp against a hard, clattering table.

He couldn't breathe anymore. He couldn't move anymore. He couldn't scream anymore. He could hardly hear anything anymore. He wanted to open his eyes.

_Open your eyes, Pete! _

His lids twitched. His mouth opened in a breathless shriek. The effort was so brutal, so taxing, he thought he might pass out. But it was worth it when his squinting eyes registered the blurry smudges above him. There were blue-grey blobs twitching this way and that so fast they seemed to leave after images trailing behind them. With his sight- as questionable as it was- other senses seemed to decide it was time to tell the brain what they were receiving. He smelled copper, he smelled salt, rubber, and maybe a bottle of death. He saw bulbous eyes, lights so bright they hid almost everything in their depths. The sheer strength of the white above him made the concept of angels annoying. He heard clicking, foreign words above him, and more choking machinery. The foul taste of bile burned into his tongue and it was worse than drinking curdled milk. In fact, it almost even _tasted _like curdled milk.

Cold, four fingered hands clutched his body. Pressing into the skin and holding him forcefully against a slab searing with a bleeding chill. That was when something, something he couldn't see, was pushed into his back- right where it hurt the most. As a thick, invasive probe was pushed into his open wound and his vision exploded into nothing but sheer white, another scream tearing out of his throat, the conversation continued above him. Adrenaline gave him the strength he needed to finally struggle but there wasn't much room for him to do so. His legs twitched and kicked, his shoulders heaved back, his forehead pressed against something artificially soft.

"Cheepuq mih thript, mantengar mih." [Keep him down, hold him.]

"Agi negar jesuȇ sodel!" [He needs another dose!]

"Daculǔ la estith Eespagō Oxiñort?" [Where is the Nitrous Oxide?]

"Agipoū." [Here]

Then something was being pushed over his face, a cup-like obstruction that covered his mouth and nose. He realized with a start that he couldn't see anymore.

He didn't know what to do.

What should he do?

_Beebeebeepbeepbeebeebeep_

His heartbeat felt a little thready and the world was floating away from him.

_Warble. Click. Buzz. Click. Chirrup. _

A smell like oranges filled his nose and he furrowed his brow- well, as much as his weak body would allow anyway. It stung, curled over his senses and covered them with a blanket. He felt suddenly like he was falling through the surface he was strewn across. And he knew not what was at the bottom, only that he didn't want to find out.

A deeply groggy groan of protest escaped his parted lips but he couldn't stop himself from breathing. His bones turned to rubber, his thoughts became weak grains of sand blowing away in a wind, and he found he couldn't resist the void any longer.

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><p><em>[?]<em>

_[Knowhere - ?]_

_[Peter]_

"Dark the stars and dark the moon…" A woman's voice?

_Beep...beep, whoosh…_

"Hush the night and the morning gloom…" Yes, a song.

_Beep...beep, whoosh…_

"Tell the Ic'beck and beat on your drum," Not his.

_Beep...beep, whoosh…_

"Gone their masters, gone their sons." Its tune was too haunted to be one of his.

_Beep...beep, whoosh…_

"Dark the oceans, dark the sky." He listened…

_B-epbeep…_

"Hush the whales and the ocean tide…" The voice wavered.*

_Beep, beep, whoosh…_

"Et lux ey tenebric, lucget et tenebrae…"

_Beep...beep, whoosh…_

"Tric nigah currōs, tric carros ablix…"

_Beep...beep, whoosh…_

"Quǣ causя est, quǣ trahit estrӓ noq."

_Beep...beep…_

"Et egressǔs est frӓter, recessic cor nostrum."

_Beep...beep, whoosh..._

A pause.

_Beep...beep, whoosh…_

Something soft brushed the forefinger of his right hand.

"Iyeq,"

_Beep._

"Gone our brothers, gone our hearts."

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><p><em>[?]<em>

_[Knowhere - ?]_

_[Peter]_

"How does he fair?" A different voice this time.

"The healer said he was improving." Ah, the one from before.

A moment of pause filled with the soft sound of beeping, the whoosh of something compressing, and a quiet, barely audible _plip._

"He does not look in a good way…" Skeptical.

"It will be some time before he improves enough for us to see." She was unsure.

Another pause, this one longer than the last.

A gruff addition, "Well, he better get up soon-" no, he didn't want to, "-this place is starting to smell weird."

"I am Groot?"

"No, I mean-" a sudden cut off.

A surprised silence.

Then it continued, "It was a metaphor."

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><p><em>[22:34 – Thurs.- SY:XXXX]<em>

_[Knowhere – Lower Division – Medical Facility #29498_I]_

_[Drax]_

_Beep...beep._

Drax had meant it when he said Peter didn't look very good. His face was pale and slick with a sick sheen of sweat. Although he was resting the half-Terran's eyes were a little sunken in and the skin had turned a deeper, almost purple, shade. They'd taken his torn shirt and coat, replacing these articles of clothing with thick swaths of gauze. And beneath the bandages they'd inserted wires with pads attached to the ends, pressed against Peter's flesh and recording his pulse. Drax could see it beating on the monitor beside the bed, a zigzagging, green, pixelated line that repeatedly spiked up and down. He'd been told that if that line went flat he'd have to call someone and _fast_.

So he'd been watching it, observing it almost obsessively over the last three hours.

_Beep...beep, whoosh._

There were other numbers and lines displayed on the screen but he couldn't understand what they meant. There was a red one that read; 90, and a blue one below it that read; 78. The healers had tried explaining what they meant but Drax wasn't the best at medicine, particularly after a night of drinking, and so he'd only been able understand that the numbers represented the pressure of Peter's blood.

A needle had been taped to the crook of Peter's right arm, a tube attached to the end and leading up to a bag filled with a red liquid. It wasn't too often you found species who bled such a beautiful scarlet color, he could see why ghouls found it to be so transfixing. _Plip, _a drop of blood bled out the bag and into the tube. Drax watched it flow down its tunnel and disappear into the needle.

Then there was the mask strapped to Peter's face, feeding him oxygen. It covered his mouth and his nose, making a whooshing sound every time Peter breathed. The healers said that if he kept improving they would be able to take it off tomorrow.

_Bee-beep...beep._

Drax couldn't help but wonder about these self-dubbed 'professionals'.

When he and Gamora had thrown themselves into the operating room, prompted by Peter's terrible screaming- _the screams of a dying man,_ Drax had thought- they'd been trying to use a combination of spells and physical persuasion to keep the strong half-Terran down on the operating table. They hadn't been terribly gentle about it and hadn't really known what to do about their sudden arrival. Gamora had tried to get to their leader but several of the blue-gray, robed spell-casters had held her at bay, quickly explaining that if they did not finish treating Peter, he would soon perish.

It was all they could do just to watch and agonize over the terrible pain that their comrade and leader was fixed in. Watching was all they could do as the healers extracted shrapnel from his wounds, where the still-capsuled plasma had embedded in his flesh and practically exploded.

_Beep...beep, whoosh._

The healers had later explained to them that they'd done everything they could, using a combination of magic and science to sanitize Peter's wounds and speed up the recovery time, but would need to keep an eye on him for at least three days before letting him go. They'd explained the depth of his injuries but Drax hadn't completely understood; something about a damaged nerve, kidney, muscle, rib, bone-

It sounded bad.

_Beep...beep._

He'd seen warriors fall before- he'd seen his _wife and child _fall before. Yet, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had to be a bedside vigil. It hurt him, to see his friend so wounded and knowing that he had been there when he'd fallen. The look of confusion on Peter's face just after he'd been shot, the look that had been swarmed by realization, it was seared into Drax's brain. It was an afterimage on the back of his eyelids.

Admittedly, the experience was a little muffled by the alcohol and Gamora had almost strangled him while waiting for the explanation. She wanted to be furious, she wanted to blame someone for what had happened- even drunk Drax could see the venom in her eyes. She was hellfire waiting to scathe any fool who tested her. But she'd been so gentle with Peter when he'd finally come out of the operating room 4 hours after the procedure had begun. At least, he thought she'd been. In his head was a blurry memory of a woman singing a haunting tune, but its realism was probably about as questionable as his consciousness at that time.

He was ashamed to admit it but he wasn't all too familiar with alcohol and its effects on various species, having only recently been introduced to the substance by Rocket.* He'd indulged recklessly and because of that had not been quick enough to engage in the battle that Peter had been drawn into. It also seemed that the intoxicating liquid was capable of stealing his memory as he'd only been able to recall snippets of that night.

Drax remembered trying to find Rocket.

_Beep...beep, whoosh._

He remembered screams, grunts, and discharging weapons.

_Beep...be-eep, beep._

He remembered knocking heads together.

_Beep...beep, whoosh._

He remembered Rocket stumbling back into the room.

_Beep...beep._

He remembered hearing the enormous sound of plasma discharging preemptively, seeing red, shooting the stray Skrull in the face.

_Be-be-eep...beep, whoosh. _

And remembered Peter falling.

_Beep...beep._

_Plip._

It irritated him how everything he recalled only came to him in snippets. Why must his memory fail him when he needed it like this?

Drax remembered rushing his fallen comrade out of the bar, hurtling down the streets with Peter on his back. He couldn't recall how he'd found the healers, he could hardly recall arriving at their door. Gamora later informed him that he had been shouting something when she found him, that she'd had to find them an escort underground where things were a little more civil and Peter could be treated.*

That was a day ago.

Other than waking up in the middle of the procedure and giving the healers one hell of a time trying to keep him at bay, almost giving Gamora a heart attack with his screaming, he had not moved.

_Beep...beep, whoosh. _

Drax sighed deeply and turned his head to catch a glimpse of Rocket, curled up and sleeping on a chair at the end of the room. His throat ached and his head felt puffy, an effect Peter had once told him was his own special equivalent of a "hang-over", but he was lucky enough to avoid what the StarLord had often described to him as a "headache". And since last month's events with the half-Terran's previous ailment Drax understandably found himself very lucky to be unable to experience such excruciating agony.

Rocket, on the other hand, wasn't quite as durable as he. A little whimper escaped the rodent's throat, whiskers and ears twitching in distress. He was wrapped tightly around Groot's pot and, in his sleep, he wrapped his tail a little more around the ceramic container. The growing sapling cooed, vines growing out from his hands and caressing the pained rodent. According to Rocket he'd be able to come out of his pot soon and from there, the real growth could begin. It wouldn't be much longer than another month before the celestial being could return to his former glory.

In the meantime they'd be stuck with carrying him everywhere. And Drax secretly delighted in being the one to do so, enjoying the increasing weight the sapling had been picking up. It was a bit like watching a child grow.

_Be-beepbeepbeep._

"Guh-" the grunt caught him a little off guard and he turned around, narrowed eyes scanning the body before him. Peter's brow was furrowed, muscles tightening, tendons in his neck protruding as he fought off a wave of pain. His body glistened, chest going through little convulsions, and fists taught. Drax's expression was stern, as though he thought he could intimidate the pain away and it remained that way until Peter settled and the heart monitor stopped fluttering through beats.

_Beep...beep, whoosh._

Finally, the blue muscle-man leaned back in his creaky, uncomfortable hospital chair and heaved a sigh. He rubbed the back of his head and thought for a moment before deciding to be a little more productive and taking out his blades.

He might as well sharpen his weapons while he waited for Gamora to get back from the ship.

Drax didn't wonder what she was doing, he found he didn't particularly care.

And the various sounds of medical equipment were soon joined by the _shwwwwsh _of sharpening blades.

* * *

><p><em>*I also do not own these first few lyrics to <em>Snow White and the Huntsman Soundtrack - Gone. _[Kinda. I tweaked some things, obviously.]_

*_I may be wrong, as I have reached this conclusion after watching the movie only twice. I recall a scene where Rocket and Drax are drinking and Drax exclaiming: "Let us put more of this liquid into our bodies!" So I am assuming that he is not as familiar with alcohol as others. _

_*This will make more sense if you've read the comics. There are parts of _Knowhere _that actually have a system of "government" and appear far cleaner/orderly than what we all saw in the movies. I'm doing a bit of a combination of things here [comicsxmovie] and if what I saw does not add up with information that you have heard of [via interviews with Gunn, etc] than please understand _I have not heard what you have. _Thank you._

_Warning: This story is a work in progress. Information in this chapter is subject to change._

_I understand there might be a few confusing parts of this chapter, if you have any questions let me know. [Any questions regarding the various alien-ish languages you find in this chapter, this is the answer I will likely give you: I DON'T KNOW EITHER. I TRIED, BRO. YO HABLO UN POCO DE ESPAÑOL. Pero eso es todo... Mas ó menos.(This has been a PSA of don't-ask-that-question.)] If you want to know what Gamora sang, though, message me and I'll be happy to give you the translation. _

_If you liked this chapter, leave me an (o). If you hated it leave me an (x)._

_Thanks for all the feedback from last chapter!_

_Cheers!_

_(But no really, if you actually have a question about those weird languages I came up with let me know and I'll answer to the best of my ability.)_


	3. Novalis

_Wowzers, everyone! That's a lot of follows, favorites, and reviews! I'm honored that you are all enjoying this story so thoroughly. _

_I hope we can all continue to do so! :)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

* * *

><p>"<em>There is an energy which springs from sickness and debility: it has a more powerful effect than the real, but, sadly, expires in an even greater infirmity." <em>

― Novalis

* * *

><p>-Novalis-<p>

_[17:53 – Fri. – SY: XXXX]_

_[Knowhere – Lower Division - Medical Facility #29498_I]_

_[Rocket]_

Click. Squeak. Shuffle. Clatter.

"Fuck." Little black paws turned a well-worn blue box upside down, a fallen screw jangling about inside the inner workings. On the nightstand beside him was a glass of untouched water and several mechanical parts- both old and new- scattered about on a cloth.

Rocket wasn't the type of guy to enjoy hospitals- really any of kind of hospital, infirmary, medical ward, he detested them all. They reminded him of Halfworld and his time as a mere "non-sentient" test-subject strapped to a lab table and forced to endure vivisection after vivisection. They were sanitary, impersonal, organized and every scream echoed down the polished halls. The brightness hurt his eyes, the scents burned his nose and throat, the sounds dove into his eardrums and pounded against his brain in what he sometimes wondered would feel like one of Peter's dumb Terran headaches.

And yet, despite his distaste for all things medicine he couldn't help but wonder if he would have preferred something more pristine than this. The medical area that Peter had been transported to was, without a doubt, a little sketchy. The joint felt like a child had been left to scrub it; every easy spot was clean and smelled brushed but the corners held yellow stains, various gunk, and very much inhabited webs. There would, on occasion, be a moan drifting down the hall from one of the various other occupied rooms but other than that and the occasional healer the corridor outside Peter's room was quiet. Rocket had meant it- however drunk and pained he might have been at the time- when he'd said the place smelled a little suspicious.

It was chary enough that they all agreed on leaving at least one person with Peter at all times.

Right now that meant Rocket was on duty.

Drax and Groot were on the _Milano_ doing who knew what with themselves.

And Gamora was out doing some investigating, having said that she didn't trust either of the explanations her drunk comrades had given her.

The raccoon's ears twitched as the sound of footsteps approached, clopping down the corridor. He couldn't remember anything from Tuesday night no matter how hard he tried. All he had in his memory banks was the look on Peter's face just before he fell- and even that was blurry as hell.

_Clop, clop, clop._

Rocket's nose twitched, his tail wrapping around his side a little tighter as he continued his tinkering with Peter's Walkman. Whoever the hell these _Sony _guys were they were possibly the dumbest creatures to have ever existed. No wonder Quill was always so careful with the damn thing. Rocket was a mechanic, a genius even, why was this one, dumb, _infuriatingly simple _box giving him such a hard fucking time?

A squeaking sound brought his attention to the door just as a blue-robed healer stepped inside. He'd been around the Galaxy a few times and Rocket had seen his fair share of things. But he couldn't remember ever having encountered a species quite like this one before:

Their skin was a milky gray-blue color, dry and stretched over their cheekbones. Under bright lights Rocket had noticed a scaly shimmer over their cheeks and forehead, their skin refracting the sharp hospital glint with every movement. Disturbingly, their heads were at least double the size of their torsos with eyes as big as Gamora's fists and protected by three successive eyelids. From what he'd gathered the four gill-like slits on their necks functioned as the basic equivalent of noses, and the fuzz on their otherwise bald heads had a similar purpose as whiskers. Rocket had only ever seen them floating, never once walking anywhere and with those robes obscuring their bodies he was beginning to wonder if they even had legs at all and didn't just make walking sounds by bumping two pieces of a halved coconut together.

The healer looked at him for a moment, black pitted pupils shrinking to the center of the eyeball to reveal irises not unlike the color of the Xandarian sky. With his paws still locked tinkering with his latest project and Peter fast asleep on the bed in between them Rocket felt his heart rate pick up. These things made him glad that he had a laser pulse cannon lain under his chair and several shock grenades hidden in his suit.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he demanded, ears twitching back a little, baring his fangs. Undeterred by the show of aggression, the creature tilted his head to the side, gaze curious, before entering the room.

It spoke with quivering dulcet tones, "you are a strange one." The door clicked into place behind it and the strange being continued on to drift towards the bed.

_Clop, clop, clop._

Offended, Rocket dropped his project and took up his gun with practiced movement, "you got a problem with me, ya D'astard?!"

Disturbed by his shout Peter shifted, grunting uncomfortably in his sleep. His brow furrowed a little and he pursed his lips, pulling his shoulders back against the mattress and turning his head to the side. Earlier that day they had taken away the breathing mask, deciding it was no longer necessary but the remaining IV bag swayed and all the various wires tucked against his chest shone in the artificial lighting system. The light bounced off with each rise and fall his breathing forced his chest to make.

Baring his teeth and huffing irritably Rocket closed his mouth but kept his gun at the ready.

"Calm yourself," the healer whispered, making the raccoon-hybrid's fur stand on end, "you will wake the patient."

"His name is Peter Quill, ya dumb bastard," came the snarled retort. He received no reply.

Instead the creature drifted to the unconscious StarLord's bedside and leaned over him, second eyelid peeling back to reveal more blue. Rocket wasn't a very enthusiastic fan about the way the healer peered at his comrade but he held his tongue.

Several long moments of awkward silence filled the space between them.

It was almost a full minute before the creature decided to continue with whatever he/she/it had come in here to do and grabbed the sheets covering Peter's chest. Rocket tensed, tightening his grip over his weapon-of-choice in preparation for anything the "doctor" may attempt.

"Yo, Freaky, what the hell are you doing?" he demanded, gaze switching between Peter to his healer and back. Said healer carefully pulled the sheets down to the half-Terran's hips and dropped them.

"Checking." Rocket was just about to demand a better explanation when two four-fingered hands were set on the StarLord's chest. The unfamiliar gargle of a spell being put together made Rocket's whiskers twitch in unease and he watched Peter's face carefully for any signs of discomfort. A warm yellow light surrounded by a circle made of glyphs he couldn't understand sprung out of the healer's hands and seemed to soak into the chest beneath.

_Beep,beep,beepbeep._

Ears swiveling forward as the sound of Peter's heart rate picking up registered, Rocket bared his teeth but forced himself to stay put. Gamora and Drax had mentioned that a healer would come in every so often and treat their downed comrade to a few spells; one for healing, one for rejuvenation, and one for pain. He still wasn't comfortable with it, though. Rocket especially didn't like the way that these healers refused to refer to Peter by his actual name, they only ever called him 'the Terran' or 'the patient'.

"Silence, Strangeling," the creature told him briefly before returning to his work. A soft grunt flexed out of Peter's throat, his head pushing back into the pillows but Rocket couldn't tell if was from pain or disgruntlement. The damn lazy asshole had been sleeping for three days now and it was about fucking time he _woke up _already. Then they could get out of this damn creepy hospital and Rocket wouldn't be tempted to shoot the healers anymore.

A growl rumbled through the air in response to the _thing's _choice of words but nothing more followed. Soon the color of the spell and the runes surrounding it changed as the creature moved on to spell number two. Peter seemed to relax better with this one, easing into the mattress with a flat brow and a soft sigh.

_Beep…beep…beep._

Aware that his comrade's pain was being relieved Rocket allowed himself to relax just a little bit- just a _little bit. _It wasn't until the healer had finished with spell number three and Peter was looking less pale and yellow and a little more normal than before that he allowed himself to sit back.

The healer also leaned back to survey it's work, glancing at the monitors before deciding that it was done for now and simply left without a word. Rocket waited until he couldn't hear its footsteps anymore before lowering his weapon and picking the Walkman back up. With a few muttered curses and quick glances at Peter's face he resumed his tinkering, skillful paws working into the little gizmo sat in his lap.

_Beep…beep…beep_

"Dumb bastard's as fragile as his dumb music player," he muttered crossly.

* * *

><p><em>[18:25 – Fri. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Knowhere – Upper Division – Dubulu's Bar]_

_[Gamora]_

"Rewind the tape," a firm voice commanded, echoing in the gloom-filled bar, the bar that had been closed to the public for the past three days so it could undergo its repairs without any interruptions.

Interruptions like Gamora.

"B-but you've already watched it t-" the quivering, poor, defenseless Rigelian bartender stuttered. He held his hands defensively in front of him, eyes flickering between the gorgeous glower a foot away from his face and the tip of the blade she held at his throat.

A shadow passed through her eyes and she suddenly seemed even more menacing than before, drawing herself closer, "did I mumble?"

"N-n-no, no- I'll re-rewind the tape for you," came his rabid response. Satisfied Gamora lowered her blade and leaned back to get a good view of the holoscreen as it was set to replay the events of Tuesday night's security footage.

_What the hell happened to you, Peter? _She thought, biting her lower lip and watching as her leader was pointed in Rocket's direction by the bartender for a third time. When she'd asked him, the trembling Rigelian had told her that he'd been warning Peter about the possible damages that Rocket was about to cause, that he honestly hadn't been trying to hurt him and _ohpleaseMissputthatthingdownpleaseyourgoigntocutmyheadcleanoff. _

From what Drax had told her, Peter had started the fight out of self-defense but that's not what things looked like on the tape- the unhelpfully soundless and blurry tape. Watching her fallen leader reach out and put a hand on the large Skrull's shoulder- the one that loomed over Rocket with a glower fit for hell on his face- and smile winningly the assassin tensed. Not long after another Skrull shouldered his way to the front of the group of four, grabbed the cuff of Peter's shirt and lifted him almost completely off the ground. They started shouting at each other, Quill holding his hands up in the universal gesture of peace. Several jabs in Rocket's direction later and the blond was suddenly stiffening.

It wasn't hard to tell why either, given the way the Skrull moved as though to unsheathe a weapon. Gamora guessed that Peter hadn't given a damn that he'd been held at gun point and delivered some snarky reply, sending the intoxicated Skrull over the edge. But it looked as though the whole situation had begun due to something Rocket had done. She just couldn't figure out what that _was_.

"What did he _say_," she stressed, leaning into her palms and watching as the fight began again. She wished Peter had left at least one of those 11 Skrull alive enough to question- she immediately discarded that thought upon recalling that doing so had almost gotten him killed in the first place.

"I-If by that you mean to ask what the rodent said then I believe I might have an answer," the tremulous barkeeper spoke up, shattering her thoughts. Gamora's attention snapped to him, prompting the Rigelian to continue. "I believe the argument between the rodent and the Skrull started because the rodent flirted with one of my pole d-dancers."

She turned her head and furrowed her brow, confused by what he meant, "be more clear. Why would this upset the Skrull?"

"Uh," the poor barkeep glanced at her blade for the umpteenth time, "because- well, it seemed that- the- well-"

"_Out with it!_"

"The bull had taken quite a liking to the dancer your rodent friend flirted with."

Gamora's heart skipped a beat and her eyes bulged.

A bull.

A bull Skrull.

A hormonal, drunken, predatory, fully aged _beast_ and Rocket had pissed him off over a _woman. _Even if she hadn't already seen how drunk the creature was firsthand, she could see clearly in the security footage that Rocket wasn't aware of what he was doing.

But that wasn't an excuse.

And she couldn't tell herself not to be _angry _with the vermin that had caused this problem.

"I am taking this," she announced, swiping the small holo-feeder off the counter and whirling around.

"O-oi-" the bartender tried to protest. But she had already stridden out the door by the time the words left his mouth.

Rocket and Drax both had some hell to pay.

* * *

><p><em>[18:52 – Fri. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Knowhere – Lower Division – Medical Facility #29498_I]_

_[Peter]_

"_I did what?!" _Rocket. Surprised. Offended. Disbelieving. His voice was faint, as though far away.

"You heard me, rodent!" Gamora. Livid. A little less faint.

Why was the skin over his stomach so numb? He could feel everything beneath it but couldn't register anything above it. Was there something there? And what was with that weird tingling in the back of his legs?

_Crack. Shoom- blip! _The sounds were getting louder, less like he was hearing them from underwater, and he was becoming more and more aware.

"This footage would be enough proof!"

Pause. A soft buzzing sound unique to a portable holo-feeder. Unwilling, Peter found himself being dragged back to the world of the living.

"I don't remember any of this!" Rocket's distressed protest. Loud.

A slam.

Peter winced, pursing his lips together, not wanting to forgo sleep just yet.

"You are despicable, incapable, and completely unreliable. First you give him a headache then you break his walking man and now you've put him in a hospital bed- I do not understand why Peter keeps you around." A growl. Too loud.

"Hey! What the hell?! You make it sound like I did all this in the same day!" _Too loud._

"That's because you _did_." Sheer, unmitigated irritation.

"Well, that's-"

"When Quill wakes I will advise him to leave you behind on Knowhere. And from what I hear of the healers that will be soon-" a pressure gathered at the sheets to the left of his right arm, pulling them tight against his chest as something, presumably Rocket, leaned onto the mattress.

Having decided that he'd had enough of all this nonsense Peter groaned, "Quit acting like spoiled fucking children, calm your shit, and _argue somewhere else._"

The air was filled with a stunned silence.

"P-" Gamora began.

Irritated, sore, and still exhausted Peter interrupted her, "_No._"

"Bu-"

"_I am going back to sleep now._" His voice was even and slow, leaving no room for anyone to doubt how he felt about the situation.

"Oi," Rocket's turn to try, apparently.

"No. Deal with it."

Swallowing his irritation he blocked his comrades out and was pleased to find it relatively easy to slip back into the unending depths of a well-earned rest.

_I am not the Guardian of a bunch of children, for fuck's sake. Just let me rest peacefully._

* * *

><p><em>I do not imagine that an injured Peter would be too happy about waking up prematurely because his comrades refused to stop bickering loudly over him. Literally.<em>

_If you liked leave me an A, if you hated leave me an F._

_Thanks for reading!_

_Cheers!_


	4. Browning

_A lot of people are curious to know why I keep changing the O,X and A,F thing. This is because fanfiction does not allow reviewers to leave the same exact review twice, even if you are a guest. Because I have some very lazy and/or illiterate reviewers who only want to leave one letter, I constantly need to change it. For those of you who appreciate consistency and/or like to add things with their reviewers, you are free to stick to the O and X thing as much as you like. :)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

* * *

><p>"<em>The cure for our modern maladies is dirt under the fingernails and the feel of thick grass between the toes. The cure for our listlessness is to be out within the invigorating wind. The cure for our uselessness is to take back up our stewardship; for it is not that there has been no work to be done, we simply have not been attending to it." <em>

― L.M. Browning_, Ruminations at Twilight: Poetry Exploring the Sacred_

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><p>-Browning-<p>

_[19:20 – Sat. – SY: XXXX]_

_[Knowhere – Lower Division – Medical Facility #29498_I]_

_[Peter]_

_Beep…beep._

Sigh.

Click. Tic. Squeak.

"Tche, drammat."

_Beep…beep._

Squeak. Creak. Click.

Sleepy. He was sleepy. Why was he awake? His back was sore and achy, his pelvis kept throbbing and there was this uncomfortable stinging sensation in his side. Wanting to dispel the pain as much as he could Peter shifted on his mattress, filling his lungs with a deep breath and pressing his head into the pillow. The sounds at his side fell silent, replaced by expectancy.

Squelch, creak, pumf.

Something landed on the sheets beside his right arm, causing them to get a little tighter. There was a soft patter as feet moved towards him, traveling closer to his face and head.

"Quill?" a voice he knew he should recognize but sounded a little strange; small and maybe a bit unsure of itself.

Nope.

The sound of a throat clearing.

"C'mon, ShitLord, time to rise and shine," a warm, soft pad lightly smacked the side of his face.

"I am _Groot._"

Nu-uh.

"Oh, he'll be fine!"

No way.

He announced his disapproval with a groan.

"Oh no, you were supposed to wake up _yesterday,_" Rocket denied, slapping him a little harder, "You're already overdue."

Peter remained statuesque, hoping that his furry companion would think him to be sleeping and thus leave him alone.

"I'm going to bite you."

And he sounded dead serious too.

"_Okay!_" like a creature coming back to life Peter jerked, hands coming up, eyes snapping open, "I'm awake, what'd I miss?" A sudden internal yank cut him off from going further with a witty remark and he gasped, smacking a hand against his chest and cringing as a sensation not unlike thousands of caterpillars crawling over his organs registered with his brain.

_Beepbeepbeep._

"Hey-oi! Get it together, man!"

"I am Groot!"

It took a moment but eventually the odd sensation went away and Peter was left feeling strangely rejuvenated. Like there had been a secret store of energy his body had been holding out on him with and it had suddenly sprung a leak. As though highly pressurized, it burst and washed through his body. As his heartbeat and breathing evened out and the lights became less overwhelming he took stock of his surroundings.

The white room around him looked like it had seen better days; there were faint stains on the walls, chips in the floor, and webs in the corners. The gray sheets that covered him had a few well-hidden holes and looked like they hadn't seen an iron in years. A heart monitor beeped away to his left and when he turned to look at it he finally noticed the cords connecting his chest to the machine. They tugged on his skin, these little circular pads pressed against his flesh and, in some areas, tucked under gauze. And from the soreness and the small band-aide in the crook of his arm, he guessed that at some point he'd had an IV hooked up.

"So wait," he began, peering down at his body and the bandages covering it, "how long was I out for again?" It hadn't escaped his notice that only Rocket and Groot were left in the room- Rocket on the mattress less than a foot away from his face and Groot on the nightstand behind him. He wondered if he might have offended Gamora with what he'd said the last time he'd woken.

"About 4 days," Rocket replied casually, returning to his seat and tucking something blue into his jumpsuit. Peter observed but didn't question, he'd get to it later. Rather he noted all his visible bandages with a grimace. He was covered in thick, puffy swaths from the 11th rib down to, what he guessed, was just before his groin. Pursing his lips together, the StarLord tried not to think too hard about that.

"I am Groot."

Peter waited for Rocket to translate his friend's limited vocabulary and when no explanation was forthcoming he turned his attention to the furry mammal. Concerned, he opened his mouth to ask his comrade what was wrong- because _clearly _something was. His fur was tangled and matted in a few places, some whiskers were bent out of shape and his tail kept up a constant swishing motion- a gesture that Peter knew indicated a form of distress.

"You didn't get into a fight with Gamora, did you?" he asked casually, raising a suspicious eyebrow when the Rocket's shoulders stiffened. The rascal was saved from having to answer that question, much to Peter's annoyance, when the door burst open and slammed against the wall. The poor blond flinched so bad the fresh, thin layer of skin that had been growing over his wounds stretched, sending such an angry stinging sensation all throughout his back and lower abdomen that he couldn't stop himself from yelping. "Damnit, Drax," he cried, pressing a hand into the lower right side of his pelvis with a tight grimace on his face, "haven't you ever heard of the phrase; 'respect the wounded'?!"

"I," something quavered in the mighty man's tone and Peter stopped wriggling to look up at him, "my apologies, I was not aware that you had woken." There was a flash of an expression not terribly unlike guilt on Drax's face. But the blond StarLord just provided a reassuring grin and proceeded to wave Groot's concern away.

"I am Groot."

"Don't be so down, I'm fine," he assured them- mostly Groot as the growing sapling used elongated little hands to gently pat his face and chest, as though looking for any further injury. A small keening sound escaped the youngling when he came across an early-stage bedsore but Peter could only huff, "C'mon, I said I'm fine little dude."

Still, he didn't bother wasting energy trying to detangle himself from the grasping fingers and instead focused his attention on sitting up. Pushing his elbows into the mattress he heaved himself upwards, holding back a wine as his sore muscles protested. Drax stepped forward, as though to help but Peter just pushed a little harder. He felt a bit more successful than was probably necessary about having accomplished his goal a moment later, pillow stuffed behind him.

Being incapacitated was already super-duper annoying.

"Are you fit for travel, comrade?" Drax's voice cut through his thoughts and he looked up at him, a little confused and a little hopeful.

"What?"

"Gamora is bringing your ship closer to the hospital. The healers have decided you are healthy enough to leave," he explained. Peter pushed aside the little voice in the back of his head that told him he didn't _feel _ready to leave and nodded.

"Uh, yeah, sure." Peeling the electrodes off his chest, Peter quickly turned the screeching monitor off. He leaned forward to grab the sheets and pull them back but a snap of pain laced up his back and he froze. Pursing his lips together and sucking up a grunt he opted just to kick the sheets off. The reputable StarLord wouldn't have been lying if he said he was relieved to find that the healers hadn't taken his pants away. He looked around in search of his shirt and caught Rocket packing up his things.

Things like; pieces of metal, screws, wires, and several complicated tools. He found he wasn't in the least bit surprised that his comrade had been constructing a bomb beside the bed of an unconscious, wounded man in a _hospital_.

_Wait._

"Were you building a _bomb?!" _he cried, voice rising a few comical octaves.

Rocket hesitated a moment, picking up a few copper wires and bundling them up as he sat on his answer.

Then, "Yep."

Eyes wide with horror Peter swung his legs out over the side of the bed, trying desperately to ignore the uncomfortable tingling he felt on the back of his calves.

"Are you crazy?! You were building a _bomb _while I was _unconscious_ and we're in a _hospital!_" But Rocket just made that odd snickering-hissing sound that Peter figured was his best attempt at a snicker.

"It wasn't that bad," the smaller being shrugged, finishing his clean-up and then turning to his wide eyed and pale comrade, "I wasn't making anything _big_." He jumped off his chair and let Drax move it to the side, giving Peter the room he needed to stand. "I mean," Rocket continued, "If it went off it would only have obliterated half a block!"

"How is that reassuring in anyway at all?!" Quill demanded, voice shrill.

Rocket just continued his snickering.

Baffled, Peter shook his head and pushed forward, "You're damn pretty insane, dude," setting his bare feet on the floor and leaning into the soles. He kept one hand on the bed and the other pressed to his too-warm pelvic wound. He acted casually but the bone throbbed, the muscle stung, and the organs beneath it all felt bloated.

"Where are the rest of my clothes, anyway?" he asked, trying to take attention off each movement he made. Drax bent down at the bottom of the bed and pulled out a transparent bin.

"Your shoes and coat are here," he announced. A sudden sharp pain in Peter's nose made him flinch and sneeze uproariously, stabbing needles prickling across his flesh over each healing wound.

Damn, now that tender spot on his back was itchy.

"Sonuvabitch," he cursed, shaking his head and snorting. As per usual, Drax looked terribly weirded out by the Terran reaction as he set the box down at the end of the bed. He was still not accustomed to the sight and sound of a simple sneeze. Rocket had had his fill of entertainment the first time the mighty warrior had witnessed one of Peter's infamously loud sneezes.

"_Is it some kind of distress signal?" _he'd asked, confused.

It was too good of an opportunity for Rocket to pass up and so he'd told him, covering his laughter _brilliantly_. _"Sorta," _he'd said seriously, nodding his head towards the unsuspecting, and thankfully out of ear-shot, Peter as he snuffled and wiped his nose. _"It's unique to Terrans. They do it when they feel threatened. It's supposed to confuse the predator attacking them and give them a chance to escape. Sometimes really aggressive Terrans will use it to overwhelm their prey too." _

It had taken Peter at least a week to figure out why Drax kept getting so offended every time he sneezed. And he'd threatened to lock Rocket in the storage unit again if he kept misinforming Drax about these things because _"forfuck'ssakesoncewasenough!"_

"What about my shirt?" Peter asked, stepping forward and daring to lift his hand off the bed. His legs felt a little rubbery but not enough to topple him and for that he was pleased.

"That was unsalvageable," Drax replied.

"Aww, man," Peter pouted, "I liked that shirt." He sat down at the end of the bed and slipped his socks on.

"Was there," Drax hesitated and Rocket reached up to pull Groot off the nightstand, "Something unique about it?"

Quill shrugged, trying not to let his pain show as he jammed his feet into his boots, "Mostly just had sentimental value. I've had that thing for a while."

"That's disgusting, Quill," Rocket said simply, setting Groot down so he could sling his work bag over his shoulder.

Shrugging his coat on, Peter grinned, "Hey, at least I don't shed."

"Yeah," his gun-toting comrade rebuffed, "that's why you always smell so bad."

"I am confused, you both smell foul. What is this argument supposed to accomplish?" Drax asked.

As the four of them- well, _three _of them- walked out into the hall, Peter smiled.

"Obviously it's to see who's the bigger man."

But poor Drax just furrowed his brow, "That is childish."

Together they continued on with this conversation out into the reception area until Gamora came by with _Milano._

And throughout it all Peter forced himself to ignore his growing discomfort.

* * *

><p><em>So here's the deal: I managed to cut my finger today while doing a bit of cooking. It just so happens that I am right-handed and the finger I cut is on my right hand; my index finger. This chapter is shorter because it is a bit of a challenge to type with my finger being as it is. [It's not a shy cut either, the epicenter is purple and I may or may not have seen bone.] I'm still writing though, so don't worry. <em>

_That said: I'm sorry about Drax, everyone. I am entirely too entertained by his confusion. He'll be less OOC in the next chapter, I promise._

_Extra special love goes out to all of my guest/anon reviewers! You're all very sweet, special, and selfless people. :) _

_If you liked, leave an A+. If you hated leave an F-._

_Thanks for reading! _

_Cheers!_


	5. Gilbert

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

* * *

><p>"<em>I wish I could fly like that hawk, rising and falling with the still spaces in the air, far above all this sickness and death and evil."<em>

― Heather Day Gilbert, _God's Daughter_

* * *

><p>-Gilbert-<p>

_[12:03 – Mon. – SY: XXXX]_

_[On-board the _Milano _– Lower Utility Bay]_

_[Peter]_

The familiar hum the _Milano _made as it swam through the empty vacuum of space was a comforting relief in comparison to the incessant aches Peter felt tearing through his body. It had only been a day and a half since he left the hospital on Knowhere but he was beginning to wonder the wisdom behind doing so. Drax had said that the healers were letting him go- healers that he had never actually seen. The gnawing ache of suspicion chewing away at his gut had been bothering him furiously these past few days but his companions hadn't been able to offer him any answers.

In the communications room Peter leaned back in his chair with a wince, raising a cup of coffee to his lips. He was so tired of being tired, of feeling sick, of _hurting _everywhere. Goddamn, the pain was maddening even _with _the painkillers he'd been prescribed for his headache last month.

Head feeling heavy he leaned it back, intending to let it rest on the back of the chair. A yanking sensation beside his spine, a twinge buried in the muscle, immediately stopped him, however, and a frustrated curse came off his tongue.

"For fucks sake," he groaned, pressing a tender palm against the still healing wound. Having a nerve grow back was bad enough, thank you, but the kidney? Grimacing, Peter wondered if that was even possible, last he checked those things didn't grow back at all. But Gamora had told him the healers used magic to help him recover so maybe…?

He closed his eyes and leaned forward a little, setting his mug down on the table and grabbing his head in his hands as nausea whirled through him.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

Despite his best attempts to fend it off he still found himself puking out his breakfast five minutes later.

* * *

><p><em>[15:23 – Mon. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-board the _Milano _– Main deck]_

_[Peter]_

"Peter?" The sound of Gamora's voice behind him gave the unsuspecting, utterly exhausted, and terribly dizzy blond a bit of a jump and, of course, sent spirals of agony corkscrewing out of his pelvis and lower back.

"Gamora?" he wheezed, trying not to grind his teeth together as he turned his body completely around to see her. Lately, just turning his upper torso was a bit too much to ask.

"You look unwell," she pointed out, concern twisting her face as she neared.

"I'm fine," he dismissed the subject and turned back towards the controls.

But she was insistent and put a firm hand on his shoulder, "No, I will take the controls. You should go rest."

"Gamora-" Peter began, not one to back down.

"Tell me, did I phrase a question?" the former assassin asked and, without a doubt in his mind, Quill knew she would knock him out and drag him to his bed by force if she needed to.

He blinked at her, "Actually, yes." In response the venomous woman pulled her hand back- "Okayokayokay, I'm out, I'm going!" Handing over the control sticks he stood up and carefully extracted himself from the seat, keeping a hand on the backrest as the world around him spun like a Disney tea-cup ride.

He had to wait a moment for the dizzy spell to pass, forcefully swallowing bile that tried to evacuate his stomach while Gamora watched carefully. Come to think of it she was being way more- for lack of a better word- motherly recently. It was actually beginning to make him worry about her.

Taking a deep breath he asked his comrade, "Is something wrong?"

Obviously she had not expected that kind of question to come from him and, in her surprise, she found refuge in the task she had assigned herself. She sat down in the chair he'd previously been occupying for the last hour and a half, turning her eyes on the stars.

"Of course not," she replied stiffly. Peter craned his neck up a bit, raising a disbelieving eyebrow and running through his mind trying to figure out what may be the cause of her distress.

After a pregnant pause he found his answer.

"This isn't about what I said to you and Rocket when I woke up that time, is it?"

She stiffened, "No."

He sighed, "Gamora-"

"_No_, Peter," she interrupted, "You were right to say those words. We _were _acting like children and our mindless bickering disturbed your rest."

_Not everything is about me, you know, _he thought. A huff escaped him and he tried to catch her eye in their reflection across the transparent window but she refused him. The infamous assassin's face was not as stoic as she might've thought, however- at least, not to a womanizer like Quill. He could see it in the little crease on her brow, the tightness of her lips, and the way she had to constantly keep her straying gaze from landing on his reflection. It felt a little like she was, maybe, almost, just a _tiny bit: _guilty.

At that realization his eyes softened and he was able to completely forget his nagging discomfort.

"You're not," Peter hesitated, weighing out the pros and cons of pointing out her distress aloud, "Feeling guilty about what happened back there, are you?" He was still talking about their brief conversation in the hospital.

Apparently, though, he was the only one stuck on that, "Disregarding the fact that there was no apparent need at the time for me to come along, I feel as though I should have joined you instead of staying on the ship."

Confusion tightened his features, "That's-"

"I should not have trusted Drax and Rocket to guard you- much less themselves. I am a fool for allowing you to get hurt," she turned around, choosing to stare deep into his eyes, "And I am an even bigger fool for believing that the five of us could be a team."

Disbelief bloomed out of Peter's heart, opening up his face to a look of surprise. Before he could grasp a proper reply Gamora turned back around and continued with her self-appointed task.

"Oh no," he denied, reaching forward and setting the _Milano _on autopilot way faster than should have been possible. "You hold on just a damn second. We _are _a team, Gamora," the blond insisted, putting himself before her so she could no longer discreetly avoid his gaze.

He hadn't been prepared for her sudden wrath, "_No! _A _team _does not allow their leader to fall!" A fierce mixture of anger and guilt tightened her eyes and flexed the muscles in her throat, beautiful green skin rippling, "If it were not for you I would likely be dead. If not for you, Drax would still be consumed by his desire for revenge and locked in prison. If not for you, Rocket and Groot would still be bounty hunters scavenging for scraps of whatever units they could find." She stood up and strode towards him, every footfall echoing throughout the deck, "If not for you the universe would still be under attack and Ronan would be destroying planets." She finished her rant with about a foot of distance between her face and Peter's, forcing him to lean back and into the chair behind him.

A stunned silence was left to consume them both for several moments, Gamora working to calm herself down and Peter just trying to figure out what to say.

No-one had been so loyal to him in his entire life before and while Yondu had occasionally had his moments he never outright said that he c_ared_ or that he was _thankful _Quill was around.

What was he supposed to say to reassure her? What was he supposed to do?

"Gamora," he finally began, his voice quiet and gentle, "What are you trying to say to me right now?"

Again she was unprepared for his question. Leaning back away from his face she looked down, as though the answer she was looking for was written on the deck beneath her feet. "I am saying that," she hesitated, "Drax and Rocket do not appreciate-"

"-This again?" he interrupted, "Gamora the only thing keeping us all from being a real team is the simple fact that you- nor anyone else on this ship- seem capable trusting anyone! I mean, c'mon, the three of you argue like cats and mice whenever I'm not around. The only one I don't really have to worry about is Groot." He looked at her, gaze steady and stern, "If you really want us all to be more of a team then you need to stop picking fights with each other and actually try to resolve your problems _without violence._" Peter forced himself to ignore the growing pressure in his belly, the sharp throbbing on the left side of his pelvis- opposite his plasma wound. He gave her a few moments to think about what he'd said before bravely putting a hand on her shoulder, "Go easy on them, okay? They're just dumb men," he winked at her before making a subtly ginger turn and heading to the manhole. "Don't crash us this time," he called up as he climbed down the ladder.

He received an offended snort by way of reply and a winning smirk touched his face.

Ooh, wow, okay still dizzy.

* * *

><p><em>[17:24 – Mon. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-board the _Milano – _The Washroom] _

_[Peter]_

There was nothing quite like a shower after a nice 2-hour-long, mostly unsuccessful grab at sleep. Sucking in a deep breath and letting the warm water wash over every ache his poor body was suffering from, Peter let his mind run a little. They weren't in worrisome territory yet but, he had to admit that Gamora had spent a few good heavy units on his stay at the hospital. They should probably start looking to pick up a job tomorrow…

The pain along his inner left side had been steadily growing more and more constant over the past few days- these last few hours particularly. His exhaustion only seemed to get worse with every move he made, no matter how minor it was. He felt like he was a few steps away from the point of collapsing before he'd laid down. And even after the half n' hour of sleep he'd managed to get in the end he _still _felt tempted to just fall over.

"Guuh," he groaned quietly, afraid that a well-timed passer-by might hear him. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and he'd puked at least half of that out about an hour later and yet the very thought of food made him sick. Peter had absolutely no appetite and he _knew _that was unhealthy. Leaning against the wall opposite the shower head he tilted his head back and let it bump against the tile.

God, he was so fuckn' exhausted.

An itchy, tingling sensation in his back reminded him of wound number 2 and his finger twitched. The bathroom swayed from side to side in a movement he couldn't tell was caused by the ship actually moving or if his head was just being a jackass again. He'd almost _prefer _to have a migraine over this mess.

He remained in that position for a while, trying to ignore the sleepy prickling sensation across the skin over his stomach and forcing his rubbery legs to keep him standing. In an attempt to make himself feel a little better he did as he always did and focused on his breathing, listening to the beat of his own heart.

Bu-thump….bu-thump,bu-thump-…bu-thump.

Aaaand of course _that _was irregular.

"Oh fuck this already." Giving up any possibility of reprieve for the moment he turned off the shower and stepped out. Feeling absolutely _freezing _all of a sudden he reached for his towel and quickly began drying himself off.

He'd just pulled his shirt and boxers on when a knock came at the door, quickly followed by a familiar gruff tone, "Yo, are you jerkin' off in there or what?"

Peter sighed, "You can come in, Rocket, you don't have to wait."

The door swished open and his furry companion padded in, "Are you kidding? You may feel comfortable, pal, but I sure as hell ain't gunna let a pervy guy like you watch me do my business."

"You're pretty messed up if you think I _want _to see your junk. Besides, I can't help it if this ship only has one bathroom," he retorted. For a strange moment Rocket didn't reply, simply looking up at him with this expression on his face like Peter had begun bleeding profusely or something.

He stopped. Suddenly a little nervous- _was that why he was hurting so much?_ – he glanced down at his chest in search of any growing blood stains. Finding none he glanced back up at Rocket only to discover he was no longer the center of his friend's attention. Rather the raccoon-hybrid was instead focusing on throwing open the toilet. Pulling his pants on carefully, really not feeling in any rush, and trying not to grimace or groan or make any other indication of pain Peter pretended not to notice the way Rocket waited for him to finish up. The guy was a little too sensitive sometimes, he felt.

Finally, he slipped his retractable mask over his ear and asked, "Hey, Rocket, have you seen my Walkman?" Immediately the creature stiffened, fur even puffing out a little.

"Why the hell would I have been keeping track of that piece of junk, ya idiot?" he snapped. Still pretty sore that it was broken, Peter frowned.

"Yeah, right," he muttered and turned to leave, "Well, have a good piss then." Like that he left the bathroom and headed off towards the kitchen.

Even if he wasn't hungry the others probably were.

* * *

><p><em>[17:45 – Mon. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-board the _Milano – _Lower Utility Bay]_

_[Peter]_

Since taking his life on solo Peter had learned that if you couldn't cook for yourself you might as well kiss what money you had goodbye. Getting the ingredients for things was cheap while paying for the full course meal threatened to empty his wallet entirely. So he'd done some research, hooked himself up with a few _very _lovely females and learned a few things from them about the wonders of cheap cooking. Over the course of about 5 or 6 Terran years he'd gotten pretty good.

Well, he thought so. (And Rocket was thrilled to tease him relentlessly for it.)

_Apparently _his crew had very _refined _taste buds. (And Peter was thrilled to tease Rocket relentlessly for that.)

A sudden shiver made him pull his coat closer around him and wish he could spend a little time next to an open fire. He shook that thought away, aware that it was only making him feel colder. Throwing a few spices into the wriggling noodles and going over what things he still had left to prepare, Peter wasn't really prepared for Drax to lumber inside the room.

He was brave enough to turn his head to the side and catch a glimpse of the destroyer headed to the table.

"You are cooking," Drax noted, surprise in his tone.

"Yeah, why?" Peter responded, returning to his task. The sound of the Pastafarian noodles bubbling, the sizzle of the brown, spicy sauce in its pot, and the gurgle of the sparse vegetables he was allowed to use without offending Rocket and Groot filled the momentary quiet.*

"I am merely surprised to see you out of bed," came the easy reply, "I had expected you to be sleeping." The scuttle of a chair being pushed back and the groan of metal announced where Drax had chosen to seat himself.

A humored snort bubbled up out of Peter's throat and he grabbed the pan with the still-half alive noodles, lifting it up and driving the cooking utensil out, down, and then up to flip the contents around a bit. Grabbing a bottle filled with a transparent, somewhat yellow substance he popped off the cork.

"What, did you think Rocket was going to cook or something?" he smiled, tilting the bottle and drizzling the pasta with the sweet tasting oil. He set it down a moment later and picked up a pair of elongated chop-stick-like utensils, using them to mix the oil into the meal.

He could hear the grimace in Drax's voice, "No. However, Gamora has proven herself capable of this craft multiple times in the past." Peter felt himself pale a little with the realization that if Gamora found him out here working she'd probably knock him out on the spot.

"Well, I guess that is a good point." Drax grunted in confirmation, taking one of his duel blades out of its holster and starting to sharpen it.

For several minutes they continued in companionable silence.

Then, suddenly and without warning, the muscular warrior decided to add his voice to the mix.

"You are a brave warrior, comrade-Quill," he stated.

Peter froze, surprised, and turned to face the goliath, "Uh-"

"There are not many who would sacrifice themselves so willingly for another," he received a respectful head-nod, "You have my admiration and my loyalty. You have proven yourself to be a fitting leader."

Not entirely sure what brought about such flattering honesty, Peter found he could only nod his head in return and say, a little unsurely, "Um, thanks."

With eyes a few shades shy of being too intense Drax met his gaze and the reputable StarLord saw the level of fearlessness in full, saw what made Drax a destroyer, before they broke eye-contact and the older warrior returned to sharpening his weapons.

_Ok, so, that was a weird little moment we just had,_ Peter thought, turning off the stove and pulling out a few cheap bowls.

* * *

><p><em>[00:34 – Tue. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-board the Milano- Lower Utility Bay]_

_[Peter]_

He'd gotten a full 2 hours of sleep before he was jarred awake by a fiery pain streaking across his abdomen, like the more and more consistent pain in his left side had begun to migrate over to his right side. His back was throbbing so hard he thought something might be trying to break out of flesh and more than once he'd thought the wound had been ripped open. Nausea curled around his chest and swathed his face in sweat, making every movement a battle against the bile trying to rise into his throat.

Damnit, he knew he shouldn't have eaten anything at dinner.

Peter's dizziness was so intense he had a hard time understanding how he had managed to get out of bed and make his way over to the communications center at all. He clutched at the table behind him with such force he could feel the metal digging into his skin and his knuckles turn white. It was so cold he thought he might freeze to death. His heart rate was ridiculously unsteady, breathing was a chore, and his legs were giving out on him. But he held himself still long enough for the bright blue scanner to draw across his entire body twice, taking full account of the various wounds and maladies his body was suffering from. The moment that light disappeared he let himself collapse into a chair, grunting at the pain that spiraled up his already shrieking back.

"_Medical assessment complete," _a way too perky voice told him, one that was neither male nor female. _"Diagnosis for: _Peter Quill. _Age: _30. _Sex: _male. _Species: _Terran-" Since he was holding the diagnostics on a screen in his hands, Peter was able to skip the lengthy bull the machine would have babbled and skipped right to what it had determined his problem was.

"_Are you sure you want to skip-_" It began but Peter was pressing the _'yes' _button before it could finish.

He wasn't totally prepared for what came next.

"_Diagnosis: Peter Jason Quill has come down with _Morphalite Syndrome._" _Mentally blown away Peter felt his eyes grow large and his labored breaths get caught in his chest. The prognosis continued with unnecessary babble, _"Warning: This disease is life-threatening. In the Terran species it has been known to spread through the body quickly, shutting down organs, clotting important arteries, and turning white blood cells against each other. Peter Jason Quill requires emergency medical attention however; there is no known cure for this species."_

He'd "come down" with the alien equivalent of _cancer._

* * *

><p><em>*I hope this isn't offensive to any Rastafarian readers I may have.<em>

_So many reviews, I don't know how to answer them all. Thank you very much everyone!_

_So this time: leave me a 1 out of 10 rating. 1 being the best, 10 being the worst._

_Cheers!_


	6. Tamora

_My cat decided to make a contributi_000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000n.

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

* * *

><p>"<em>Sometimes there's nothing you can do. [...] Sometimes they don't have enough to fight with." <em>_  
><em>― Tamora Pierce, _Briar's Book_

* * *

><p>-Tamora-<p>

_[03:23 - Tue. - SY: XXXX]_

_[On-board the _Milano - _Peter's Room]_

_[Peter]_

Peter didn't really get a lot of sleep that night, left with thoughts of his mother swirling around his head. He was so focused on them- on wondering if this was what she felt like when she got the news about her illness- that his ever sharpening pain floated to the back of his head.

What should he do? Should he tell the others? If he did, what would that really accomplish? He'd heard about people during his life on Earth that survived through cancer but that was because they'd had the right treatment and their bodies were strong enough to tackle the disease.

His body…

Well, his body _wasn't_ strong enough for it.

A grimace contorted his face as a harsh throbbing erupted from the right side of his pelvis and he wanted to be grateful that it was no longer on the left side but this was just worse. His shivering only made everything that much more awful- _why'dithavetobesodamncold?!_

He knew without a thermometer that he'd come down with a fever and he wasn't surprised. A tickle in his throat warned of the coughing fits that were soon to come, fits that he knew would only cause him more pain. Swallowing Peter closed his eyes and tried to let his body sink even deeper onto the mattress. But he was already as relaxed as he could get himself and his muscles still felt like overtaxed rubber. Breathing was getting harder, his eyes stung with exhaustion, nausea threatened to bend him in half and puke out his innards, and thinking was starting to become tough.

This wasn't right, he knew there wasn't something- he knew this was- it was off. This wasn't how cancer worked, right? Yeah, no, cancer took longer. The body was supposed to fail quickly-no, _no_, it was supposed to fail _slowly. _He was supposed to wither and dry out and die- and was it just him or had things become super blurry? Nah, no, that wasn't supposed to- that was wrong, his eyes were closed.

A weak cough flexed his throat and chest.

_Bu-thump,bu-thump…bu-thump…bu-thumpbu-thumpbu-thump…bu-thump…_

He felt tingly and that just made him shiver even harder. The shivering movement stressed his nausea and pushed the bile up into his throat. This played with the tickle in his throat and made him want to cough.

So he did; he coughed all over the side of the bed and vomit just happened to come out his mouth at the same time.

But the coughing and the puking put pressure on his head, enforcing a wrath-filled headache. And this ache traveled down his spine, pooling into his left kidney with a stabbing, resentful agony. This agony was echoed around his front, to the lower right of his pelvis. The pain was so sharp Peter had to wonder if maybe something inside him was exploding.

It was in those moments that he found himself hoping that death would be swift, and just whisk him away as soon as she could.

He didn't care that he was dying anymore he just wanted it to hurry up.

* * *

><p><em>[09:45 – Tues. – SY:<em> _XXXX]_

_[Xandar – Nova Corps H.Q – Debriefing Room 0012]_

_[Dey]_

The sleek, pristine, and impersonal halls of the Nova Corps headquarters gleamed in the Xandarian sunlight as it streaked through the high skylights. Busy officers scuttled back and forth, their footsteps echoing in the corridor outside the quiet, mostly empty debriefing room. A lone figure sat at the end of the sleek black table, a holo spread across the surface in front of him and showing the curly-brown-haired corpsman a familiar sight, minus one.

"Hey, wait, where's Peter?" Dey asked, squinting at the screen in front of him as though he imagined said former-outlaw had shrunk. He was staring down a screen that viewed the _Milano_'s main flight deck with Gamora in the primary control chair piloting the ship. Groot was sat beside her, Drax was sitting in the communications chair, and Rocket stood about with his arms crossed.

The cyberneticaly enhanced creature scoffed and jerked his head towards the manhole behind him, "That lazy D'astard is still sleeping." His tone held a few shades less of the typical gruff manner he spoke with.

Dey didn't look very convinced, however, reading in on the tension the air seemed to hold aboard the _Milano_. Rocket kept shifting from side to side, Drax was sharpening his weapons when they obviously didn't need to be sharpened anymore, Gamora seemed a little _too _focused on a task as mundane as piloting and Groot kept looking over his shoulder.

He hadn't known the crew for all that long, maybe about a month or so now, but in that time Dey thought they had all managed to get along pretty well. Peter was always happy to get a call from him, seeming to think they all meant that a fun, interesting, exciting, well-paid adventure was afoot- even if he wasn't the one to pick up the phone half the time. And Drax got along pretty well with his daughter- Dey was almost considering the consequences of asking the big guy to be a babysitter.

The Guardians were a good group of people, despite the fact that Groot- big or small- had a tendency to eat his way through everything in the gardens and Rocket kept trying to slip out explosives and other things of such from the weapons vault whenever they visited. And Peter had a habit of never staying still so if Dey was late to a debriefing the chances of him finding a full set of the crew to debrief were generally pretty damn small.

They might not be the most efficient, cleanest, closest, or reliable bunch of people but Dey found there were, as the saying went, "not 100% a dick."

"I'd suggest that you go and get him then, this job I have for you involves, well, _all _of you," he said, trying not to let himself become concerned when his suggestion was met by lengthy hesitation.

Finally a weary sigh emptied out of Rocket and he acquiesced, "Alright, fine. I'll go get him." His gut twisting with suspicion Dey watched the smallest Guardian take off towards the back of the ship and slipped down the manhole.

"Guys, what are you not telling me?" he finally asked. After a moment filled with awkward silence Gamora set the ship on autopilot and leaned back in her chair, though she wasn't the one to speak.

"Quill was wounded in a fight," Drax said. Dey furrowed his brow, concern glistening in his eyes. He was just about to ask how bad it was when Gamora answered.

"He has been recovering," yet she didn't sound totally sure of herself.

A deep sense of unease sprouted in Dey's heart.

* * *

><p><em>[09:52 – Tue. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-board the _Milano_ – Peter's Room]_

_[Rocket]_

"Hey, Quill, time to get up!" Rocket was hollering before he even opened the door to his comrade's private quarters. Peter had a pretty good spot on the ship, given that it was _his _to begin with. A nice two-person bed sat dead center in the room, dressed with white sheets and a black quilt. There was a nightstand beside it with a small lamp built into the wall above it. A clock shown in the dark of the room, also built into the wall, reading back the time to the uninterested raccoon. There was a sliding door across from the foot of the bed that revealed a closet with a pretty damn limited arrangement of clothing.

And for the first time since Rocket had boarded the ship the bed was made and the room was clean, no dirty boots or stray socks littering the floor.

Immediately suspicious the hybrid stepped cautiously into the vacant room, searching for his comrade.

"Quill?" he called again.

No answer.

Nothing but the quiet hum of the ship.

"Drammat," Rocket cursed, running a paw through his fur, "Where the hell did that bastard run off to in his condition?" He wouldn't have been the first one to have pointed out that, despite the treatment he had received, Peter looked horrible. He was pale, constantly sluggish, his eyes had a bit of a glaze to them, and he flinched at every other movement he made. He just didn't seem too terribly well…

"In what condition?" Peter's voice came from behind him.

"Hah hah," Rocket laughed sarcastically and turned around, unsurprised, having heard the approach of Quill's footsteps. He was about to continue when something caught his attention, an odd scent in the air. Confused, he took a whiff, whiskers twitching as he sucked air through his nose. A second later he recoiled with a disgusted grunt. "What the hell Quill, you reek! You smell like-" And this is where Rocket's instincts really booted up, realizing that this particular scent was neither specific to Peter's commonly bad odor nor one that he was unfamiliar with. It was toxic, sharp; it was the smell of sweat, vomit, blood- _infection_.

More precisely, it was the smell of serious illness.

Then he got a good look at Peter's face.

And it was fine.

Yeah, his hair was kinda damp- probably from a shower- and his face was still pale, eyes still glazed, but he didn't look like he had a foot in death's door.

Peter pretended to look hurt by Rocket's choice of words, "Well, at least I don't smell like a dead animal."

"Yeah, you smell w_orse!" _barked his comrade, watching as the blond turned around and headed out the door.

"Oh, that's just a _lie,_" Peter shot back. The smile on his face seemed strained, though, and his steps were unsteady.

"Yeah right," Rocket pretended not to notice. "Hey, Dey is on the phone. He wants to debrief us on the next job he's got," he told the blond, but Peter didn't seem to be listening. In fact, he seemed stuck in his own little world so thoroughly that he had stopped walking.

"Oi, ShitLord," Rocket tried again, turning around to see his taller comrade, "You listening?"

He got no reply.

"Oi!"

Still nothing.

Peter was now kind of tilting towards the wall, managing to smack a hand against the metal to keep himself from falling over but looking no less unsteady at the same time.

"Look, if you're going to pass out this ain't the place or the time-"

"I'm fine, Rocket," Peter said slowly, quietly, unconvincingly. He put his free hand against the side of his head and his comrade's ears perked up.

"You got a headache or something?" If his voice was a few decibels quieter than before, Rocket would never have admitted it.

"Yeah," and if Peter's voice was just the tiniest bit thicker than usual, neither of them acknowledged it, "Yeah, something like…that."

_Crash. _

Rocket almost jumped out of his fur when Peter suddenly crumpled, falling to the floor like a stack of unsteady bricks toppled on top of each other and held together with a few prayers.

"Hey!" He shouted, hurrying over to his friend's side. In the span of about two seconds Peter had turned a deathly pale shade of white. His breathing was labored and face tight with a familiar expression of utter agony. Sweat pricked his forehead, his body was trembling, and, upon setting his paws over Peter's shoulders, Rocket found he was _way too frickn' hot._

"Gamora, Drax!" the shout echoed through the ship, "Get your asses over here, Peter's down!"

He heard a distant commotion and the sound of approaching footsteps.

He heard Dey asking what had happened.

He heard the thready beating of Peter's heart.

And he thought; _fucking shit, this is all my fault. _

* * *

><p><em>[10:00 – Tue. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-Board the _Milano – _Main Deck] _

_[Groot]_

Despite popular belief, Groot was not an idiot. No, he was just a little slow sometimes.

But he noticed things, the little things, the most important things. He saw things for how they were but did not let them drag him down. And despite the way he may act, Groot was far older than anyone would believe.

So when he'd first seen Peter back on the ship he'd known, almost instantly, that something wasn't entirely right with him. There was something new about him, something festering within him that Groot couldn't fully comprehend. He'd asked Rocket about it but his friend had just gone and explained the basic principles of healing magic to him.

He'd tried to tell Drax about it but he'd also misunderstood- or, well, never even grasped a word Groot was trying to convey in the first place.

Over the course of the last few days he'd been watching Peter as carefully as he could being confined to a pot and ever so slowly his friend had started to deteriorate. The pale face, the glazed eyes, the constant flinching, Groot had observed it all. He had done what he could to make Peter feel more comfortable, releasing microscopic spores into the air that calmed the senses and repelled dizziness on a minute level. If he was bigger he'd be able to help much more, but the reality of the situation was there was ultimately very little he could do.

When Rocket's voice echoed through the halls, up the ladder, and onto the main deck with a note of raw panic to it Groot had trembled anxiously in his pot, roots curling and uncurling in the soil. Meanwhile Drax and Gamora burst out of their seats like bubbles. With Dey and Groot looking on they both jumped down the manhole, completely ignoring the ladder, and raced off towards Peter's room.

"You have any idea what's going on down there?" Dey asked him a moment later, turning to the only soul left in the room that had a chance of relieving his anxiousness.

"I am Groot." A mournful wine followed the celestial being's dismissal. He turned his gaze to the empty seat beside him, the seat that was so often occupied by their resident StarLord. How empty it looked, how dark and sad and alone the chair was.

Feeling useless, sensing fear, pain, and chaos in the air Groot did just about the only thing he could do and released his soft spores into the air.

And he hoped for the best.

* * *

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	7. Gaskell

_Thank you to guest reviewers: Rin-Rin, anonymous (yes, I am happy now.), Anne, Frostfan, and all my other unnamed guests for your wonderful reviews! _

_Extra special thanks to Rin-Rin, Anne, and anonymous for your repeated reviews. I may not be able to reply to you but here is my show of appreciation. :)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

* * *

><p>"<em>But with the increase of serious and just ground of complaint, a new kind of patience had sprung up in her Mother's mind. She was gentle and quiet in intense bodily suffering, almost in proportion as she had been restless and depressed when there had been no real cause for grief."<em>

― Elizabeth Gaskell, _North and South_

* * *

><p>-Gaskell-<p>

_[16:34 – Tue. – SY: XXXX]_

_[On-board the _Milano – _Peter's Room]_

_[Rocket]_

This was quickly becoming exhausting; waiting for Peter to get well and recover, constantly going over the play-by-play scenario in his head looking for a puzzle piece of truth that formed a different result. What could he have done differently? What could he have done to avoid this? It was all such a blur and being cyberneticaly enhanced didn't help his memory any better than being muscular helped Drax's.

A hiss of irritation worked its way out of Rocket's throat as he sat at Peter's motionless bedside, still tinkering with that _damned _Walkman. He was almost done, though- at least, he thought so.

His fiddling with the musical device, accompanied by the irritable curses mumbled under breath, seemed overly loud in the small room. Even with Peter's wheezy breathing, disrupted little grunts of pain, and the ship's constant humming Rocket still sounded obnoxiously noisy.

Across from him Drax's chair was empty. A few minutes ago his restlessness had finally gotten to him and he'd gone to the bathroom. Right now he was probably checking in with Gamora to see how long it would be until they reached Xandar where Dey promised they'd be met by a professional med team. Rocket hadn't teased him for being worried either, it was Peter's fault. He kept dry heaving in his sleep and he continued to blow up in horrendous coughing fits that neither of them knew how to dispel. The only one really capable of helping him with that kind of nonsense was the one and only Groot who, presently sat on the nightstand and was looming over said StarLord, had taken to releasing small, barely noticeable spores into the air. Rocket could almost guarantee that he'd never have seen them at all if it hadn't been for Peter's sudden collapse earlier that day.

After Drax had hauled him off to his bed and Gamora had forced a few painkillers down his throat Rocket went up to check their course and make sure they weren't headed into a rock. He'd arrived to find little white clumps of fluff hung all over the place. The growing celestial being had smiled sheepishly and asked; "I am Groot?"

Which easily translated to; "Is he feeling better yet?"

It hadn't been too hard to deduct what Groot had been attempting to do after that. Rocket told Dey what was going on and the corpsman had immediately promised to give them free medical assistance if they needed it.

Rocket hadn't declined.

"What a delicate bastard," he grumbled, glancing up at Peter as he reached for the next part he needed. The Terran's impossibly pallid face was covered with a sick sheen of sweat, his temperature held at bay with a cloth soaked in ice water- which was pretty weak if you were to ask Rocket. Drax and Gamora had removed Quill's shirt, revealing the tense, rippling muscles underneath. For a moment Rocket simply watched his downed comrade's labored breathing, observing his expanding chest like it was a flawed science project. The human body, he couldn't help but silently admit, was actually kind of interesting.

From the center of Peter's chest there was a beating movement, irregular and sometimes worryingly fast, that Rocket knew was his heart. It rippled through the pale flesh and trembling muscle, becoming less noticeable at the height of his chest's expansions and more obvious at the lowest point of the contractions. Each movement made, every flexed muscle, tendon, and pained facial twitch was highlighted by the glimmering sweat streaking the Terran's body. Nothing visible on the outside could go unnoticed because of it. But, as a mechanic, Rocket had learned long ago to be less concerned about what was going on on the outside and more concerned with what was happening on the inside.

"I am Groot," came Groot's mellowed reprimand. The celestial being stretched out his arms and set both hands gently against Peter's head. Rocket tried to imagine that it helped the Terran to relax a little.

"I know, I know," he sighed, voice gruff. He pressed a piece of metal into place.

Click.

Peter grunted and unleashed a weak cough.

Rocket pretended that he didn't hear it, never looking up even as Groot keened helplessly and looked at him imploringly.

"I am Groot," the sapling insisted.

His friend grumbled, "Shaddup, I'm getting to it."

A black paw reached out and grabbed a wire off the cloth beside Groot, feeding it through the square hole he'd made and coming out the other side. He'd already soldered all the important wires and chips in place; this was the last one and it didn't need any special treatment. Curling the end of the copper wire around another and securing it in place with a pair of tweezers Rocket grabbed the Walkman's plastic cover.

Jangle. Click. Click. Snap.

"There," he said with a final huff as he fit the cover back in place. He waved the box at Groot with a smooth gesture that he'd never admit was gentle and said, "This thing is so stupidly obtuse and archaic it's obnoxious. It must have taken those dumb Terran's decades to figure out how to make something so simple so frickn' complicated." Grumbling he snapped _Awesome Mix. 1 _into the player and plugged Peter's headphones into the side. Lifting the headset to his ears he pressed play and listened with no small amount of satisfaction as the dulcet chords of _Fooled Around and Fell in Love _began to play. Satisfied, Rocket paused the tape and pulled the headphones off his head. Then he leaned forward to fit the pads over Peter's ears.

His bushy tail stuck out to keep him balanced as he carefully pulled the headset over his blond friend's curly damp hair. The gesture was mechanical and measured, like Peter was another of his bombs under delicate construction.

Double checking the headset to be sure it was secure without being uncomfortable Rocket turned the volume down a bit and proceeded to press play.

In any other situation it would have been funny to see how quickly the sound of the music affected the half-Terran hybrid. Although Peter's breathing didn't even out and he didn't sweat any less than before the constricted expression on his face eased. He wasn't shivering quite as much either, but that difference was rather minute.

As though he could lean into the music, Peter craned his neck back as much as his body was able and swallowed thickly. Of course, this invited a coughing fit to wrack his frame from head to foot like a level nine earthquake and made both his comrades stiffen.

Two minutes later, when the fit had passed, Rocket sat back and tried not to think about the stench of sickness permeating the air around them. He tried not to think about what Peter's dumb, glitchy medical assessment had diagnosed him with.

'Cause people didn't just fall ill with _morphalite syndrome_. They couldn't just _catch _it like a disease- it had to be hereditary, right?

The human nervous system couldn't be _that _different from everyone else's, could it?

"Hey, Quill," Rocket found the soft words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, "You know, just because you're sick doesn't mean I'm going to be nice to you, right?"

Peter, of course, gave no reply.

Nothing but labored wheezing.

He watched a bead of sweat race down the side of the StarLord's face before continuing, "And I'm not going to say that this whole thing is my fault or anything either, but-" he stopped, realizing what he was doing and cast his gaze away from the unconscious Terran. "This is stupid," he muttered.

"I am Groot."

"Why?!" Rocket burst, "Why should I keep going," he made a fierce gesture in Peter's direction, "It's not like the bastard can hear me right now anyway."

"I am Groot."

"'It'll make me _feel _better'?! Look pal, I don't know if you've noticed or not but I'm not the one who needs help here!"

Groot's expression turned a little sour, "I_ am_ Groot."

"B-what does that even mean?!"

And now Groot was just full on scowling at him. There was only one soul on this dumb boat that could ever even remotely tell Rocket what to do when he was _dead set _on _not _doing that specific thing and of course that soul was Groot. The next in line was Peter but he usually had to use some kind of sneaky persuasion tactic. When it came to raw willpower, Groot was at the top.

Even when he was several inches smaller than Rocket.

For almost three minutes the two stared each other down, neither wavering in their intensity. Eventually it was Groot who won the battle, his stern gaze never twitching. Finally Rocket released a miserable sounding groan and pressed his paws into his eye sockets.

"It's not my fault," he insisted, glaring at Peter and trying not to choke on his words, ears flattened against his head and whiskers twitching, "but-" he swallowed, "Yeah, that's what it is."

Then he turned to Groot and spat, "There, ya happy?"

Groot rumbled his disproval of the poor admittance but knew he wasn't going to get any better so he didn't pester further.

Although he struggled accepting it, Rocket was worried about Peter and he was not untouched by guilt. It was frustrating, that they'd only known each other for a month and already Peter had grown on him. He was fond of the guy, thought of him as a good friend. More than once Quill had been there for him during those long nights without Groot and even though Rocket bitched at him for it he stuck around anyway.

And hell, to the entire crew this last month had felt like an eternity. They'd saved the galaxy, freed an entire civilization from a cruel monarchy, torn down a deranged religious group that was trying to take over several weaker planets, and stolen an entire shipment of illegal material from one of the biggest crime lords in the Galaxy.

It was as Peter said, "Go big or go home."

It had been somewhat surprising to learn how un-lazy-like the man really was, though. And the large network of people that he knew to get information from was also unexpected. When the reputable StarLord got excited he was like a firecracker. Luckily, his planning was _typically_ just as quick and saved them all the stress of trying to force him to calm down and think things through.

Rocket clenched a fist and looked at Peter again, "You better get heal up fast, Quill. Or there won't be any parts of your ship left to fly."

"Mm'hmm," he wasn't expecting the half-whispered hum. "Thanks, Rocket," Peter croaked, a characteristic cheeky smirk pulling at his pale face.

"Go back to sleep, Jackass," Rocket scoffed, but couldn't keep a small smile from touching his eyes, "before you kill yourself."

A deep, shuddering breath passed into Peter's lungs in a painful sounding heave, "On it, Rocky."

And 'on it' he most certainly was. Half a second later the poor guy was out like a light, leaving Groot and Rocket there to wonder how much of their conversation he'd heard. And maybe how much of it he'd understood.

* * *

><p><em>[17:15 – Tue. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-board the _Milano _– Peter's Room]_

_[Gamora]_

He'd gotten worse- he'd gotten _much _worse. There was still another hour or so before the _Milano _would reach Xandar and Peter could get professional help. But Gamora was beginning to wonder if they'd get there in time.

She knew the smell of death better than most and right now Peter reeked of it.

His curly hair was plastered to his head by a layer of sweat she couldn't wipe away fast enough. Each breath he took was clearly a battle and hurt more than they should of. His heartbeat had been irregular before but now it was just unpredictable and she could _see _it beating in his chest. He was so overwhelmed with nausea every time he coughed that he dry heaved, spurring pain from somewhere around his abdominal region and causing him to writhe so bad that Drax had to be around to keep him still. If not for the fact that Peter was already way too warm, an alarming 105.3 degrees Fahrenheit, she would've asked Drax to sit behind him, keeping the distressed man propped up and easing pressure off his chest.

A low, agonized groan escaped Peter and Gamora felt her heart clench at the sound.

Like he was trying to escape his pain he wriggled in place, kicking weakly with his legs and bunching his shoulders up against the mattress so his back rose off the surface. Before he could stress the pale, almost yellow, wound in his back Drax set a gentle hand on his sweat covered chest.

"Rest," he rumbled from across the bed, "or you will cause yourself further injury." A little bit of pressure was all it took and Peter flopped back on the mattress like a dead fish.

Gamora's concerned frown deepened. The medical assessment they has used to diagnose him said he had morphalite syndrome and she wanted to believe it was wrong with everything she had. It had been wrong before, back when it had said that having a headache could kill a person. So what promised them that it wasn't wrong now?

Her instincts, that's what.

Rocket insisted that she was being paranoid but she felt that she knew better.

"I am Groot," Groot began miserably, removing the cloth from Peter's head and dipping it in the bowl beside him. Gamora reached forward and helped him wring it out a little before carefully taking the cloth from him and wiping Peter's sweaty chest with it. She'd had to take the headphones off, much to Rocket's irritation, as the blond had begun to sweat through the soft earbuds. He'd stopped complaining when she'd explained why and had taken over the controls, promising to get them to Xandar faster than either Drax or Gamora could manage. (And muttering a vow to update the ship's thrusters when they got there.)

Peter started moving again, muttering silent nothings under his breath.

"Shh," she hushed him, gently running the cool cloth down the center of his chest and ignoring the way it made him shiver, "you are going to be okay, Peter."

"You're going to be fine."

* * *

><p><em>[17:17 – Tue. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[On-board the _Milano _– Peter's Room]_

_[Peter]_

He was _cold. _

He was way too cold.

And yet, there were parts of his body that felt like they were burning up. That oh-so-familiar spot on his back was burning, raging through tissue and muscle and traveling up bone until it collided with the back of his head. It was a constant throb crackling and snapping through him like the raging capsule of plasma that had burrowed through him.

But really, that was nothing in comparison to the fire streaking over his pelvis. He missed the light throbbing that had been on his left side. It was easier to deal with and it hadn't been so bloody _aggressive _either.

This was a pain that foreshadowed an explosion.

He found it hard to believe that his organs weren't literally on fire. They felt swelled, inflamed, so much so that he thought they would burst out of the thin growth of skin that had covered the hole he'd once had.

Something soft but horrendously freezing touched his bare chest and he tried to suck in a surprised breath but found he couldn't inhale a deep enough intake. It moved down across his flesh, soaking him with what felt like ice water.

Damnit, he was already freezing. Who the hell decided it would be a wise move to try and make him _colder?_

"Stop, I'm cold enough as is," he tried to say but while the words registered dimly in his brain they came out as indistinguishable mutters too soft to even hear. Even 75% unconscious as he was it still sounded weird to him. He'd thought that he had more control over his voice than that.

"Shh," a familiar voice hushed him, and the soft, boneless, wet thing ran down the center of his chest and made him shudder, "you are-…-e okay, Peter." Confusion filled him as he tried to piece the words together, half aware that his brain hadn't totally registered them all and those it had sounded like he was listening to them from three miles away.

The cold moved down his left side and back up, wiping what he thought might be sweat off his skin. If he wasn't in so much pain, if his skin wasn't so tingly, if he wasn't so fucking _cold _it might have tickled coming back up.

"You're going to be fine," the feminine voice continued. For a moment he thought it was his mother and that he'd died. But then he realized that, unless he was in hell, he wouldn't be able to feel any pain.

Wait.

Was he in hell?

Was the sound of his mother's voice just another part of his torture?

He tried to feel upset about that but found he was too exhausted even for emotion.

For several more agonizing minutes in which he tried to struggle but was stopped by something soft, warm, and firm Peter endured the cold. He tracked it as it gently moved up and down his chest, over his clavicle, up his neck and across his face. It stopped up on his forehead, pressed in place by a gentle touch.

Voices murmured above him. They were soft, measured with a certain level of quietness Peter knew well was reserved for the courtesy of a sick person. He had, after all, heard it before.

"I do not know," a deeper voice, one that was masculine, rumbled.

"-eck?"

"…I will."

There was the sound of someone large getting up, a creaky chair, lumbering footsteps that grew quieter as they moved further away.

A sigh.

Then there was something in his hair and it was moving. It took him several seconds to understand that the warm, smooth-tipped objects were fingers combing through his unruly blond curls. It felt nice, reminded him of his mother when he was still young. It reminded him of the nights he used to lay beside her and she would brush her fingers through his hair and lull him to sleep.

These fingers worked through knotted tangles in his hair with the same genre of tenderness that hers had. Brushing matted curls off his forehead, they glided down and smoothed over his eyebrow, brushed something off his cheek. Then they went back to running through his hair again.

It felt nice. It was soothing and made parts of his scalp tingle in a way that was almost comforting.

He didn't realize that he was relaxing until unconsciousness opened its maw and swallowed him whole once again.

And yet even there his pain followed him. Over time it built up until it was the size of the skyscrapers on Cybertron. He was too delirious, too tired, too sick to be prepared for its violent crescendo. It grew to an alarming, overwhelming _hellfire _in his pelvis that became nothing in the wake of explosion it turned into.

It was 18:03 when Peter's appendix burst.

It was 18:04 by the time he was convinced that he was dying.

And it wasn't until 18:12 that they landed and the medical team whisked him off.

* * *

><p><em>If you liked leave a "yes" if you hated leave me a "no".<em>

_Thanks for the donations and for reading everyone! :)_

_Cheers!_


	8. Adler

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

* * *

><p>"<em>I am not afraid to die; I am only afraid of saying goodbye to you forever." <em>

― Shannon L. Alder

* * *

><p>-Adler-<p>

_[05:24 – Wed. – SY: XXXX]_

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Surgical Recovery Wing]_

_[Dey]_

It was kind of amusing to walk into Peter's room and find all four of the other guardians splayed about different parts of the room, fast asleep. The second he saw them all waiting outside the operations room he'd known they'd had very little sleep. But they were all too full of nervous energy to even bother with the concept.

Drax had been pacing, Gamora sat staring at the double doors as though waiting for her cue to enter and save the day, Groot was swaying, and Rocket was taking something apart and reassembling it over and over again. Dey had made sure that something was not explosive before allowing the small creature to continue with his nervous fiddling.

No one had said a word.

Nothing, nothing but vague silence.

And Dey didn't dare disrupt that. Not even now- _especially _not now. He'd get the information he needed later, at this moment the Guardians deserved as much peace as they could get. It gladdened his heart to see them all resting, curled around their leader as though afraid he would disappear in the night. At the same time it was painful to know that Peter was capable of that.

Prime had been sure to assign him the best doctors she could get for him, ones that had studied the Terran body before and knew their way around the nervous system. So there could be no doubt about their prognosis;

Peter had morphalite syndrome. His organs were on the verge of failing- already they'd had to remove both his appendix and a kidney. Dey had been told that it was likely Quill had been ill with this for as long as a month, maybe even two, and hadn't noticed the symptoms until he'd received his injuries on Knowhere. This was where it got truly upsetting too, particularly for the Guardians themselves; the healers who had treated Peter had accelerated the pace of his morphalite syndrome by a wide margin, stripping him of 3 months and a possible recovery.

Magic, it turned out, did not mix very well with Terran biology.

At first Dey had been worried that he'd need to call in a squad to keep the Guardians from racing off to Knowhere and tearing some heads apart but then the Doctor, a well-made guy named Maleki, had gone and shattered any thought they might have had about that.

"_He has three days- four tops," _he'd said, sympathy written all over his face, _"we will do what can to make him comfortable but it is unlikely Mr. Quill will-"_

"_Damnit!" _Rocket had snarled and slammed a foot down on the polished marble floor, _"I knew it- I knew he wasn't out of the woods when we left that fucking place, I _knew _it!"_

Maleki had given him a moment to try and collect himself, although Rocket made no attempt, then he'd said quietly; _"It is unlikely he will ever come out of those woods."_

And Drax had just looked horribly confused.

Later, when the Guardians had settled down into Quill's room to begin their long vigil, Maleki had pulled him aside.

"_I know their history with him so I made the executive decision not to tell Mr. Quill's friends this, however, I feel obligated to inform a member of the Nova Corps about his involvement," _he'd said quietly, _"There is a name on Mr. Quill's file, an old discarded copy that hasn't been used for a while, that designates a Yondu Udonta as his legal guardian." _Dey's eyes had gotten a little wider, _"by Xandarian law we were forced to inform him of the situation. And we will be forced to allow him access to the hospital as well as Mr. Quill's room when he arrives."_

"_He's coming? Here?" _Dey couldn't help but be surprised. He didn't know a whole lot about the complicated relationship between Quill and the ravagers but from what he understood they were constantly at odds.

"_Yes," _Maleki nodded, _"He should arrive in the next two to three days."_

For a moment Dey simply stood there and swallowed this information, digesting it and working over solutions to the inevitable issue.

Finally he'd licked his lips and said, _"I'll talk to Nova Prime, perhaps we can find a loophole and keep him out." _

There was equal parts guilt as relief on the doctor's face and Dey found he couldn't blame him. Yondu was a sneaky, sly, devilish Centaurian with no qualms about killing. (Although, given the pattern he'd seen it appeared that he was less likely to kill innocent people as he was convicts.)

But he was also the closest thing Peter had to a father.

And now after all that chaos since the _Milano _landed, Dey stood in a quiet hospital room watching uselessly as the man who had helped save his family, his planet, the _galaxy _started to wither away.

A small, mournful groan wormed its way out of his mouth as he approached the bed, mindful of the other occupants in the room. Drax had fallen asleep in a chair beside the window, Gamora with her arms and head resting on the other side of Peter's bed, Groot in his pot on the window sill, and Rocket curled into a ball at the former-outlaw's right. In the hours since his last visit Dey noticed that the experiment had moved closer and closer to Peter's legs until he was pressed hard up against his side, face tucked under his tail.

Quill was a good guy, he didn't deserve to die. Not like this.

And yet, there he was. He had an oxygen mask strapped to his face, a soft hissing sound accompanying every breath he took. An IV occupied the crook of his left arm and fed a measured amount of transparent fluid into Peter's veins. The white sheets of his bed had been pulled down to just above his hips, gauze peeking out from under it. He had standard issued hospital attire; loose fitted pants but no shirt. He kept sweating through that.

His electrode covered chest glistened with sweat with every breath. A heart monitor silently recorded each and every beat, accounted for the systolic and diastolic pressure, the oxygen intake and outtake. A thin, plastic tube inserted deep into the side of Peter's neck shifted when he swallowed, the tissue below it bulging in a way that made Dey grimace. The chart at the bottom of the bed said it was a treatment called dialysis or something- he wasn't very good with anything needle-like so he couldn't concentrate much on it.

Dey remembered asking if that other half of Quill, the non-useless-human half would be able to help him at all but Maleki had just shook his head.

"_If there was something that could help him then it would have already. His white blood cells are turning against each other. In layman's terms his body is tearing itself apart. We don't know why and there's nothing we can do to stop it."*_

"Damn, Quill," Dey whispered, "Kanrah is going to be upset, you know." And she would be, he knew. When his daughter realized that her favorite babysitter couldn't come over and look after her, teach her ways of pranking her father, how to cook with her mother, and curse in multiple different languages she would throw a fit. It didn't matter that Peter only stopped by once every eclipse, she loved him.

"Hmmm," unexpectedly, Peter hummed and, with great effort, peeled his eyes open, "oh, hey Dey. Howzzih goin'?"

A small smile swept the grief on his face away, and he took the last few steps needed to set himself beside Peter's bedside.

"Better than you, pal," he replied, voice still quiet, "You look worse than you did after the infinity stone incident."

Peter didn't hear him. Pale blue, unfocused eyes twitched groggily this way and that but his head never turned, "Uhereh 'm I?"

It took Dey a moment to figure out what he'd said, or rather, slurred, "Trepan Hospital on Xandar, your friends took you here."

For a moment confusion crossed Peter's face and he looked at Dey as though he'd grown two heads. If it weren't for the fact that he was dying Dey might have laughed. After several long moments of silence, in which the corpsman occupied by taking a look at the latest dose of painkillers that the StarLord had been prescribed, the blond gave his short reply, "Oh."

"Yeah," Dey replied awkwardly, not really sure how to reply.

More silence spent processing things, "Ya knoh, wha'gever dey goh me doped up onh feels cray."

He couldn't help himself from smiling a little, "Yeah, I bet it does. Frankly I'm not even sure how you're awake right now."

Peter just looked confused again, searching Dey's face for some kind of answer he wouldn't find in the soft smile lines, "Whoz Fran?"

A soft laugh escaped him, "No-one, Quill." He reached forward then and gave his shoulder a gentle pat, "Go back to sleep. You need some rest."

"Noh," Peter groaned, "Noh yeh."

"Quill-"

"Rockeh cah 'ave meh Wal'man if 'e wanz," Dey froze, "jus' goddah make shur 'e loos af'er ig…"

The corpsman felt his heart clench and twist painfully in his gut, fully aware that Peter- even locked in a state of delirium- knew he was dying. The blond's eyelids fluttered but he somehow found the strength to lift an arm and kind of wave it at him, as though trying to get his attention. Dey just instinctively grabbed on to it and did his best to pay attention to what Peter was trying so hard to say.

"'N don ev'r leh Draz pilog, ogay?"

"Alright."

"E'll ged e'rywon dead."

"Okay, Quill."

"'N tell G'mora tah do some o' dah pargies sometimes. Tell 'er da _Coke a' Cola_ ish goob."

Dey nodded, swallowing a knot in his throat, "I will."

"Grooh'z juz…" he was losing the battle against his eyelids, "loogh af'er Grooh…" Peter swallowed and that tube swayed in time with the movement, "'E lihe's Jackson…so…play ig." Before Dey could reply the hand in his went lax and the StarLord fell back into the void.

"Sleep well," the corpsman whispered and prayed that he wouldn't have to tell the Guardians any of these things. He prayed to his deity that Peter would get better, somehow, someway.

* * *

><p><em>[09:50 – Wed. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Ravager Ship – Yondu's Quarters]_

_[Yondu]_

That dumb kid.

That dumb, _ungrateful, _kid.

It was _just last month _he'd gone out of his way to _help _the idjit and now he'd gone and fucking hurt himself again!

_And now he was expected to help him again!_

A low growl worked its way out of his throat, pent up anger making him want to break something- namely any one of his minimifidian crew members.* After he'd been told by that dumb Xandarian doctor how long Peter had to live, he'd hung up and ordered his crew to set course for Earth.

Luckily, everyone had been smart enough not to protest or ask any questions. Some of the ghoulish bastards were even a little _eager_ to go raiding, as Yondu had promised them. When this whole thing was over, he promised himself that he would go out and find the poor, unfortunate souls who had caused him this problem and tear them apart.

Now he sat on his bed with his elbows on his knees scowling at the wall.

"Damn idjit," he grumbled, "Knows only how to cause me problems."

Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a little voice reminding him that he didn't _have _to do any of this. It would, after all, be easier just to let the irritant die. Yondu smothered that voice maybe a little too easily.

He told himself that if he saved Peter that would be one more thing he owed him.

And for fucks sake, he'd go and save the annoying little bastard no matter how many laws he had to break because Peter Jason Quill was still _useful. _There was another voice in his head that told him he was doing this because he cared about the kid he'd inexplicably raised. Well, perhaps 'voice' was incorrect, it was more like a sense. One that made his arrow glow and wrath shine in his eyes.

He wasn't a dad.

He'd never even really wanted to _be _a dad. What kind of kid would he raise in this life?

A dead one, that's what.

There was a reason the Ravagers never bothered with younglings: they were too much fucking trouble. They were needy, annoying, and messy.

And trouble was certainly something that little fucking klepto had been. Yondu _still _didn't know where that left boot had gone off to or _why _Peter had stolen it in the first place. Perhaps just to spite him.

Every time Yondu had ever considered dumping the kid off somewhere, like he'd sensed it, Quill had come around and shoved the thought back with some move or idea or another.

The truth was he was a damn good Ravager and on some weird, strange, stupid level Yondu cared for him.

-No, no, he cared for him like he cared for an object, like cargo. Because as far as he was concerned, that's all that Peter was. (Right?)

"_Hey, ya dumb coprolite, you listening?" _

The young voice echoed through his mind with such realism that Yondu snapped his head up and looked around for its source with menacing, narrowed eyes. A moment later the intercom buzzed to life and Kraglin was telling him they had arrived outside of Earth's atmosphere. Another growl escaped him and he vowed to give Quill hell for all of this when it was over. (For screwing with his head like he always did.)

"Let's get our shit together then, shall we?" He called back, "We got a raid to do!"

He was met with a roar of thrill from his crew on the flight deck.

"Those dumb Terrans won't know what him 'em."

* * *

><p><em>[23:52 – Wed. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Surgical Recovery Wing]_

_[Peter]_

He was _definitely _doped up with_ something. _Not quite as badly as the last time he'd woken up- if his memory served him right, and it probably didn't. That had been a lot of fun.

"Hey," a gruff voice he recognized blearily as Rocket's began, sounding from near the end of the bed he was in and echoing in his mind, "We're gunna go beat the shit out of those healers on Knowhere, right?"

A moment answered in silence followed the question.

"'Cause I've been working on a battle cry."

More silence.

Then, "We'll tear them into pieces." Peter wasn't sure if it was Drax or Gamora who had replied to Rocket's inquiry. And he wasn't given a whole lot of time to figure it out either as a snapping sound drew his attention away from it.

"What are you doing?"

"I am Groot."

A discomfort that he hadn't even been aware of up until that second eased out of him when the familiar headphones were placed over his ears. They were wiggled back and forth a little until they sat snuggly on his head. Then a familiar snap echoed throughout the room and the wondrous, canorous chords of _Ain't No Mountain High Enough _began to play. It was soft and tinnitus but comfortable to listen to nonetheless.

From his lungs a slow, undisturbed sigh was drawn, something bobbing against his neck as his shoulders relaxed.

"This bastard really likes his music," he faintly heard Rocket mutter.

"It is what brings him the most peace," Drax agreed.

Something warm and soft wrapped around his left hand, what he recognized to be fingers curling around his own made apparent in his 66% doped-up head. And as he drifted off the smallest of smiles touched his cheeks.

It would be nice to die surrounded by friends.

He just hoped he have the chance to say goodbye.

* * *

><p><em>*This is pretty genericopen as I wasn't too sure what kind of cancer to give Peter._

_*Minimifidian: One who puts the least possible faith in something- an afterlife, astrology, UFOs, or whatever. According to Paul Dickson._

_This chapter is not quite as depressing as I wanted it to be..._

_I will likely make some changes to this one at some point, something feels wrong. Specifically, Yondu feels too conflicted._

_If you liked leave me an Oo, if you hated leave me Xx_

_Cheers!_


	9. Craft

_*Long exhausted sigh*_

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

* * *

><p>"<em>There is such beauty in the fight to live. We must all find the courage to go on."<em>

― Kathryn Craft, _The Art of Falling_

* * *

><p>-Craft-<p>

_[14:23 – Thur. – SY: XXXX]_

_[Ravager Ship – Live Cargo Cell]_

_[Yondu] _

The scent of fear was heavy in the air, sweet and inviting to the overzealous crew left on the other side of the door. In front of him a man in his mid-40's sat backed up as far as he could put himself, staring at Yondu with eyes the size of dinner plates.

"I'm crazy," he murmured, sinking back into his white lab coat and turquoise scrubs, "This is crazy, this can't be p-p-possible. Aliens- they don't exist."

Yondu chuckled darkly, pleased at how intimidated the Terran doctor was.

"Oh, yew ain't dreamin' sunshine," he grinned, "but if it makes yew feel any better, _yewr _the alien to us." He leaned forward towards the trembling man, close enough to brush what little hairs remained on his balding head with only a breath.

Confusion touched his victim's face, "W-what?"

Yondu leaned back, brushing his coat aside to reveal the arrow that Mr. James Schaffer had already become acquainted with. The doctor stiffened and snapped his mouth shut. Honestly, Yondu was surprised at how well the guy was managing with this. He hadn't passed out once yet.

"I'll tell yew what," Yondu sneered, "I've got a favor I need yew to do for me and if yew do it right, I'll let yew go af'erwards. Hell, we won't even try to eat yew!"

The doctor swallowed thickly, trembling a little less now that he had the promise of some sort of escape, "What do you need me to do?"

The devilish smile that crossed Yondu's face totally contradicted the words that came from his mouth, "I need yew to fix some dumb boy up for me. Don't worry, he's like yew." It was kind of funny to see Dr. Schaffer relax a little further, now confronted with something he was more familiar with.

"He's," he hesitated, "human?"

Yondu shrugs carelessly, "More or less." Concern touched the black-haired man's features however the Centaurian didn't waste any time assuring him, "But he doesn't need to be fully human for you to treat him, does he?" He said it more like a statement than a question.

In a sudden brave move, the doctor swallowed his nerves and straightened, "W-what is wrong with him?"

A scoff huffed out of Yondu and he leaned back against the door, "Dumb brat got sick with cancer."

"Um, what stage?"

"What?"

"I need to know how bad it is to-"

"What, you think I care?" Yondu asked, "As far as I'm concerned there's only two stages to it: 1) he's still alive and you fix him and 2) he dies and we eat you." Having decided that he'd had enough of the conversation he stepped forward and turned around, pressing a code into the keypad next to the door. "We gave yew enough time to gather what yew needed. Yew better hope that yewr as skilled as they say yew are." As the door slid back and he stepped over the threshold, his crew peering in hungrily, Yondu glanced over his shoulder. "Best make yewrself comfortable," he said, "It'll be another 24 hours until we get there."

And he sincerely hoped that Dr. Schaffer would calm the fuck down in that time, else he would be no use to Peter and Yondu's time would have been wasted.

That was when his attention turned over to his expectant crew.

"What the hell 'r yew lot doin' standin' 'round here for?" he demanded, a quick whistle sprung his arrow from his side, "Get yewr asses back inta gear!" They scattered like insects, all obediently scuttling off to their stations. Except for Kraglin, he stayed short and stood directly in front of his leader with a type of bravery one only got after working with someone for quite a long time.

"What exactly iz the reward we should be 'spectin' to git fo' this 'ere vendetta of yewrs, Yondu?" he asked, watching his the Centaurian suspiciously.

For a long moment the two stared each other down, each waiting for the other to cave. Of course, both being stubborn males, neither of them did and the contest was ended when Yondu turned on his heel and headed off down the corridor.

"Are yew questioning my command?" he asked, arrow twirling in the air beside him. Kraglin opened his mouth to object but Yondu didn't let him finish, "'Cause yewr becomin' more trouble than it's worth to keep onboard this boat." At that point Kraglin was well aware that he'd overstepped his boundaries and with the arrow already out he wisely chose to shut his mouth.

Yondu was definitely not in the mood for this right now.

* * *

><p><em>[07:54 – Fri. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Surgical Recovery Wing]_

_[Gamora]_

Gamora had a nice plethora of skill sets. She could kill a person in at least a 100 different ways, start a war in 18 ways, get information in 34 ways, and yet she couldn't do _anything _as her leader lay before her dying.

Over the course of the last 24 hours Peter had paled considerably, his heartbeat kept switching between being irregular and normal, and every so often she caught a hitch in his breath. She didn't like how useless she felt, she didn't like how her only option was to _sit _there and watch him waste away.

She'd left her life as an assassin in the dust behind her, so why did death continue to harass her?

Gamora worried her lip between her teeth, clutching Peter's large hand in hers. With her thumb she ran light circles over his knuckle. Rocket looked up from his tinkering, glancing at their friend's face for perhaps the hundredth time then examining the various monitors that surrounded the bed. The bandit's beady gaze caught her movements and his whiskers twitched.

"Why do you keep doing that?" he finally asked.

For a split second Gamora hesitated, then; "He responds well to touch," she explained. She was somewhat impressed when Rocket said nothing more.

Several more, long, agonizing minutes passed like this.

And then she stood up.

"I cannot sit here and do nothing," she explained to the others, "I am going to Knowhere to talk to those healers."

Something lit up in Rocket's eyes, "_Now _you're making sense!" He leapt up, feet bouncing on the bed. Striding to the door, Gamora glanced over her shoulder, eyes lingering on the bed as Drax eagerly stood to join her.

"We will make them regret their actions," he was grinning widely, but the former assassin wasn't really paying attention.

"I am Groot." Groot reassured. Gamora got the gist of what he was trying to say. Peter would be fine here on his own with Groot to watch over him and the Nova Corps guarding him.

"We will return swiftly," she wasn't entirely sure if she was reassuring Groot, Peter, or herself when she said this. But the capable sapling nodded and turned his attention to their sleeping comrade.

"Let's go tear some heads!" Rocket shouted, already half-way down the hall.

And then, with one last glance, she slipped out into the hall and chased after their weapons maniac.

* * *

><p><em>[10:22 – Fri. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Surgical Recovery Wing]_

_[Groot]_

Save for the sound of Peter's breathing the room was quiet. Not even the beeping of the monitor could be heard.

From his place beside the window he overlooked Quill's unconscious form. The day before his fever had, much to the astonishment of the doctors, dropped to a less critical state and they'd been able to cover his bare chest with a shirt.

"I am Groot," the growing sapling murmured quietly to himself.

Groot was a patient soul. He spent a large part of his life waiting for things. Waiting for growth, waiting for Rocket, waiting for the stars to change and planets to turn. He was as patient as anyone, or anything, could be. He hardly ever felt rushed and simply moved at his own pace knowing that he had all the time he wanted. Groot wasn't like Peter or Rocket, his life span could be as long as infinite.

He was in no rush.

Not usually.

But usually he didn't have to sit and watch his favorite Terran waste away. Their lives were already so short, he thought it was unfair to cut the thread before it's time.

A soft groan escaped the bed's occupant, tearing his attention away from his carefully constructed thoughts. Beneath the sheets and nest of wires Peter was shifting like he was uncomfortable. For several intense moments Groot simply observed, at the ready in case he was needed. Although, if he was he knew there wouldn't be a whole lot he could do.

Groot frowned and stretched himself out, holding his arms up above his head. He grasped at that familiar warmth stored deep within his chest and pulled it out, allowing tendrils of it to leak out of various holes in his small body. As he was now, he could probably get out of his pot and join the others in their attack and restless mission. But he knew someone needed to remain with Peter, if only just to be there if he were to wake. Yes, he would let the younger ones take care of their task. He would remain and keep careful vigil.

A moment later and Peter was settling again, deflating against the mattress like a balloon. Groot's gaze rested on his friend's immobile body for a few seconds, expectant but not sure of what.

He remained as he was for hours, covering the entire room with a thin film of white fluff and thoroughly upsetting the nurses.

* * *

><p><em>[14:20 – Fri. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Front Doors]_

_[Dey]_

Over the last few hours the curly-haired corpsman had poured over documents in search of some kind of loophole, even asking Nova Prime if she could make an exception and give him the resources he needed to form a blockade. Of course she had refused him, promising only that she would give him enough men to watch Yondu with careful scrutiny. And Dey really didn't have any other choice but to accept that.

They had an image to keep, after all. What kind of disruption might they cause if they went against the laws they themselves had constructed?

And yet, there _had _to be some kind of law against this- even if there wasn't one that could keep Yondu himself out of the building.

For all intents and purposes the crazy Centaurian had gone out and _kidnapped a bloody Terran! _

"And I'm s'pposin' yew have some proof to back up that claim?" The sly bastard asked when he'd confronted him, a cheeky smile lit upon his face. Behind Yondu several of the Ravagers he'd brought along for the ride warmed up their blasters with eager eyes. The men on either side of Dey tensed, preparing their own weapons in turn.

"_Yes,_" Dey insisted, "That man clearly does not have a translator chip. He looks visibly confused, Yondu- he has no idea where we are or what's going on."

"Um, actually," much to his dismay the bespectacled man spoke up, "I actually _do _understand you. I'm told there is a cancer patient that you want me to have a look at?"

Dey snapped his attention back on Yondu as the Centaurian approached, scrambling for a reason to keep this potential threat at bay. Beside him the grunts saw this as a good enough reason to raise their weapons.

"Oh dear," Yondu said, his crew members hanging back, "are you really pointing your guns at two unarmed men?" Dey gritted his teeth. "We do have a bit of an audience, don't yew agree?" He glanced around at the crowd that had gathered to watch, hiding from the pour of rain beneath projected torrent shields. "Who do you think would win in court?" But Dey kept his posture rigid, hands diplomatically tucked behind him, and gaze stern.

"You are correct, Yondu Udonta. Despite the fact that, in our records you are a criminal, we cannot stop you from entering the building. However, under our laws you are not allowed to bring any weapons and/or harmful substances into the hospital. You will be asked to remove your coat and strip yourself of any weapons you have," Dey said stiffly, as though he'd practiced saying this a million times over to be sure he got it right. Then he turned to what he assumed was Yondu's prisoner, "I'm sorry but only family and certified doctors are allowed to enter this part of the ward."

Of course, Yondu opened his mouth to retaliate. But the words didn't come from him. Rather they came from the Terran.

"I am a certified doctor," he said, standing tall, briefcase held firmly in one hand.

"Then I'll need to see some identification," Dey told him.

The black-haired man nodded and reached into his pocket. Pulling out an old leather wallet he flipped it open and rifled around for his ID. A moment later he pulled it out, took a few steps forward and, a little shakily, handed it over.

Dey searched that card up and down, front and back, and found nothing. Not a single loophole he could wiggle through. So he handed it back and tried not to look defeated.

Dey swallowed thickly, uncomfortable with the situation but left with no other choice.

Perceiving this the doctor shifted, "I have more proof in my brief case."

But Dey just nodded and said, "Alright, you two may follow me. The rest must stay behind."

* * *

><p><em>[15:20 – Fri. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Surgical Recovery Wing]_

_[Dey]_

While escorting Yondu and his victim to Peter's room, Dey had been reassured that the Terran doctor was there to help.

As Yondu put it; "He'll be way more useful than whatever shit yew've got fer 'im." Dr. Schaffer was apparently a specialist when it came to morphalite syndrome in Terrans.

It turned out that keeping the guards around was pretty helpful when he returned to Peter's room and found everyone but Groot gone.

"_I am Groot?" _The sapling had asked, eyeing Dr. Schaffer in an innocent way and tilting his head at Yondu.

"_Hey Groot," _Dey had greeted, swallowing nervously and glancing over at Peter as Dr. Schaffer used a stethoscope to listen to his heart (and tried not to be distracted by the talking plant), _"Don't worry about him; he's a Terran doctor that specializes with morphalite syndrome. There's a chance that he might be able to help Peter."_

"_I am Groot."_

"_Where did everyone go?" _Dey had asked and moved his friend off the sill and closer to Peter's side, brushing fuzzy spores aside as he did so.

Groot had spread his arms out and replied, of course, with, "I _am _Groot_." _Stressed and tired Dey had settled for sending one of the two guards out to see if he could pick up the _Milano_'s comm frequency. In the meantime he'd settled himself in a chair beside the door, waiting for Dr. Schaffer to give them some news to work with.

That had been an hour ago.

An hour that Dey had spent wondering what kind of, if any, solution Schaffer could come up with.

Presently, the middle-aged man sat at a table across the room with Maleki, pouring over X-rays, CPS scans, and Peter's vital records.

Yondu sat at Peter's bedside up against the wall with his arms folded over his chest and a stoic expression on his face, what looked to be a porno magazine clutched in his hands. His red eyes flickered between the two doctors every so often and Dey couldn't help but wonder if he knew what they were talking about.

"Are you sure?" Dr. Schaffer asked, looking over a CPS scan of Peter's abdominals.

"Positive," Maleki nodded and then leaned forward, "do you see the way the-"

"Yes, I understand that," Dr. Schaffer cut in, focused on his notes. It had been interesting to watch the transformation occur over the course of the last hour, starting with a confused, unsure, trembly doctor and ending with a confident Terran determined to help his patients' chances of survival. "But in comparison to the symptoms seen in most other men who are at stage three and beyond, Mr. Quill is showing a remarkably lax amount of deterioration in the nervous system- especially for a man missing a kidney, being treated with dialysis, and recovering from appendicitis surgery."

Maleki looked confused, "Stages?"

And Dr. Schaffer looked irritated, "Are you sure you are properly equipped to deal with this procedure?"

The Xandarian was kind enough not to look offended and simply explained that Terran biology wasn't the most interesting thing to many doctors in the Galaxy.

A little weirded out by the reminder that he was on a foreign planet, Dr. Schaffer cleared his throat and continued, "Well, from what I can see, Mr. Quill has not yet begun to enter the late stages of cancer." He turned in his seat and glanced his patient over, "It's actually visible how well he is faring considering what you have told me."

Little imperceptible beams of hope lit up parts of the room, hope that no-one, not even Dr. Schaffer, missed.

It was as he turned back to the documents spread across the table in front of him that Maleki voiced the question he was dying to get an answer for, "What treatment would you recommend?"

Dr. Schaffer didn't seem to notice the eagerness in his strange companion's eyes, still looking over the CPS scans, "Well for starters we need to surgically implant a new kidney. It is possible for humans to live with only a single kidney, but if Mr. Quill has any chance of fighting this cancer he's going to need all the ammunition he can get." He sketched in a few notes along the margins of a page in front of him before continuing, "I did bring a transplant kidney with me and it is best if we get that in him before it goes bad." He gestured to Yondu who set his magazine down and took a small, tightly insulated box out of his jacket, holding it up for Maleki to see with a ghoulish grin on his face.

"I understand that humans need their kidneys to survive, but how will replacing the one he lost help Mr. Quill?" Maleki asked, totally unphased by Yondu's attempt to intimidate him.

"The kidneys help keep the body balanced, specifically the proper balance of water, soluble proteins, and electrolytes. The hormones they produce regulate blood-pressure and the growth of red blood cells. It doesn't look like his body is aware that it is attacking itself, so I theorize giving it a bit of back-up may help kick it into gear." Pulling out a few papers from his case, Dr. Schaffer pointed a few things out on the pages as he continued, "after that I would recommend treating him to immunotherapy. We can introduce monoclonal antibodies into his immune system."

Wonderment spread through Maleki's eyes, "By the gods, your people have gone and created antibodies specifically designed to attach to certain antigens! Why didn't we think of that here on Xandar?"

A weak smile touched Dr. Schaffer's face, "this is hardly the most complicated or most effective solution that we have created. On-" he stumbled a little, not too familiar with talking about his planet like this, "Earth we have over 200 different types of cancers and that number continues to grow. We have to adjust our treatments all around the world to keep up with it. I'm not sure what things are like for you, but sickness is a very common thing where I'm from. If our bodies were so incapable of adapting our race would have died out long ago." He stopped, however, when he noticed the sheer magnitude of the horrified silence this information was met with.

Dey had frozen beside the door, an incredulous expression struck across his face. Maleki's eyes were positively bulging and he'd stood up, hands plastered over the table top. "You have over _200 types of morphalite syndrome _on your planet?" he gasped, "How are you alive? This is incredible!" Yondu was probably the only soul in the room that didn't look at least mildly surprised and, or, impressed. Instead, he was actually looking rather smug.

"Um, well I assume by that you mean _cancer_ so, yes. And we have a long ways to go, every year 36 million people die of noncommunicable diseases," Schaffer explained.

"The human immune system is truly something to behold," Maleki murmured, awestruck. Dey couldn't blame him. On Xandar a total of 26 thousand people might die a year due to noncommunicable diseases and most of those had a cure. There were only 3 that they continued to struggle with and morphalite syndrome happened to be one of them. Terrans really were frightening creatures.

"Anyway, Mr. Quill's body will have a lot of work cut out for it- needing to recover from surgery in multiple areas and fight off a severe disease like cancer- so I bet he will be exhausted over the course of these next few days. He will not be able to have solid foods for quite some time and it will not be until at least four days after his surgery is completed that he will be able to move around." Dr. Schaffer moved some papers about, "but we can go over more about the recovery stage when and if he can make it to that point."

Dey decided it was his turn to pipe up, "You think there is still a chance of him being unable to make it?"

A rustling from the bed announced Peter's uncomfortable shifting, the sweat on his brow glistening under the hospital lights. His breath hitched and a few hardy coughs wracked through his frame so hard the bed shook. Sympathy softened Dr. Schaffer's gaze and he reached into his brief case, pulling out a vial and a syringe while the others watched Peter's fit with various grimaces. Sticking the end of the syringe through the vial's lid the Terran doctor pulled back the plunger. Removing the needle he approached his struggling patient. Obvious pain crinkled Quill's brow and his heart rate had picked up. Quickly reaching his bedside he gently grabbed the blond's arm and ran a thumb over the crook as though searching for something. Maleki watched with a certain knowingness and Groot peered at him curiously.

"I am Groot?" he asked but Schaffer wasn't too sure about how to answer him. Aiming the needle at a diagonal point, Schaffer gently pushed it down through Peter's flesh and into the blue vein beneath. With the same fluid ease he pressed a finger against the plunger, forcing the clear liquid out of its container and into the body of his patient.

"Don't worry," the bespectacled Terran doctor assured him after a moment spent thinking, "It's just a dose of morphine." A second or two passed before Peter relaxed again, though his newest doctor remained by his side examining the monitors around him.

Schaffer treated him to a soft, unsure smile and then turned to Maleki, "Why don't we start going over the surgical procedure together? We should try and get this kidney transplanted within the hour."

"Oh believe me, it won't take an hour," Maleki said a little proudly.

* * *

><p><em>Oh goodness gracious.<em>

_See guys, Peter is hardly weak. His immune system is Terran and therefore pretty remarkable/adaptable/cool/I like it._

_If you liked leave me a (o*) and if you hated it leave me an (x*)._

_Thanks for reading!_

_Cheers!_

_EXTRA: 1 [I had to take this out of this chapter but I just couldn't get myself to trash it.]_

Dr. Schaffer didn't seem to notice the eagerness in his strange companion's eyes, still looking over the CPS scans, "Well for starters we need to surgically implant a new kidney. It is possible for humans to live with only a single kidney, but if Mr. Quill has any chance of fighting this cancer he's going to need all the ammunition he can get."

"That is remarkable," Drax spoke from across the room, taking the doctors by surprise. Awe was aglow in the titan's eyes and an impressed smile quirked his lips as he looked over at his unconscious comrade, "I was not aware that Terrans could store ammunition inside their bodies."

There was the most genuine is-this-guy-for-real expression twisted into Dr. Schaffer's expression that Dey just _couldn't _help but snort in amusement.

"I'm pretty sure that was a metaphor, Drax," he smiled. Meanwhile Drax looked seriously disappointed to find that Peter was, in fact, _not _capable of shooting bullets out of his back. His smile fell and his eyebrows came together but he didn't say anything more, simply casting an accusing glare to the ever unaware Peter Quill.

_Extra 2:_

"Don't worry," the bespectacled Terran doctor assured him after a moment spent thinking, "It's just a dose of morphine." A second or two passed before Peter relaxed again, though his newest doctor remained by his side examining the monitors around him.

"_Morhpine?!" _Drax sounded on the verge of roaring.

Yondu stiffened, prepared to physically defend the doctor he'd stolen if need be. "I suggest yew take that muscle-headed aggression down a few notches. Before this pretty little face o' mine turns ugly."

"Woah, relax!" Schaffer cried, "Morphine is just a pain killer and a sleeping agent! It's going to _help _your friend!"

For a moment locked in bellicosity Drax stood glaring at the Doctor, chewing carefully on the information he'd been given. It wasn't until Groot reached out to him with a little 'I am _Groot_' that he settled down.

As though it wasn't obvious he said to the Terran doctor, "I do not trust you."

A shaky smile exercised the muscles in Schaffer's face and he replied carefully, "That is understandable. But I assure you that I truly just want to help Mr. Quill recover."


	10. Disraeli

_If you find medical errors in this chapter please leave them be. I know they're there and I'll get to them as soon as I'm not too busy._

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

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><p>"<em>The canter is a cure for every evil."<em>

― Benjamin Disraeli

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><p>-Disraeli-<p>

_[18:03 – Mon. – SY: XXXX]_

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Recovery Wing – Room 304]_

_[Peter]_

It was quiet.

And not like the bad, deathly kind of quiet.

It wasn't _silent. _

Peter could hear the distinct sound of something humming off to his right. He could hear the sounds of pages turning to his left. He could hear the soft mumbles of one familiar tree creature to his right. He could hear the distinct patter of rain against a window.

There was a sigh. There was the crinkle of pages, the rustle of clothing, the sound of a throat being cleared.

Feeling himself being drawn back the light Peter shifted and filled himself with a deeply contented sigh, pushing his head back into the pillow.

For the first time in over a week he felt _comfortable. _Even more important; he didn't _hurt _anymore. He wasn't cold, his pelvis had only the most distant of tingling buried within it, and he couldn't feel anything along his lower back. It was a little difficult, he found, to think properly. It was like trying to walk in a straight line when you were drunk to high heaven, yet at the same time you felt more lucid than you would have been drunk.

So waking felt kind of like pulling layers and layers of spider webs off his face. With the disposal of each coating he was just a little more aware.

After the first, he became aware of the softness beneath him. He learned of the tug on his arm when he straightened and flexed what muscle remained, signaling the presence of an IV. He identified the soft covering he had lain across his unmoving body as bed sheets.

Then the second peeled away and he became more aware of the smells around him. They had the sharpness of something sterile, the sweet and sour tang of medicine. For a moment he thought he smelt what could have been dirt and rust but he quickly wrote it off as a part of lingering delirium.

Of course the third came off a little sticky, making him wonder why the hell he had this dumb, weird taste of rubber on his tongue. His throat felt dry and his tongue like sandpaper. In the puzzle of strange palates he came across something earthly. He swallowed and wrote it off, trying not to picture Groot shoving weird things into his mouth while he slept.

Expectedly, he came across the sounds from earlier with a little more clarity hidden beneath the fourth web. The blond could hear the definite sounds of life from beside him; breathing, a snort, and the shift of clothing. He could hear the crackle of wood swaying, the sound a comfortable lull beside the familiar tapping of rainfall.

Before he could peel off the last layer, he hesitated, sighed, and wondered if he wanted to face whatever delirious reality his brain had concocted for him.

"You awake, boy?" a familiar voice rasped beside him.

Inwardly Peter cringed. Outwardly he stilled. He kept his breathing steady and tried to appear as though he was still totally out.

"Wake up!" Something gave the bed a firm kick, causing it to shudder and rattle violently. The vibration shook through him, buried into wounds he had somehow forgotten he'd had and buzzed through his bones.

"Gah- fuck, what the hell?!" he gasped, coming to life. The fifth web forcefully yanked from off his eyes, Peter was left temporarily blinded. Lifting both arms he pressed his palms into his eye sockets and groaned, "sonuvabitch!"

"About bloody time, son," Yondu rumbled, "Was gettin' pretty damn tired of waiting for yar lazy ass to wake up."

_Oh for fucks sake, _inwardly Peter felt like crying. Where was he, why was Yondu here, what kind of debt did he have to pay off _now?_

"_God, _Yondu, what the hell?" he groaned, dropping one arm and combing his other hand through unruly locks.

"'What the hell' yourself, brat," the old Centaurian shot back. Peter opened his eyes again and found himself staring at the ugly mug one very upset Yondu Udonta, "I knew your race was pathetic but this is just embarrassing."

"Oh great," the reputable StarLord began sarcastically, "first thing I get back to is criticism. You are aware that I almost died right?" Because if he was still dying with the way he felt right now then he'd be very surprised indeed. Yondu snorted and returned his attention to what looked like a porn mag.

"Sure as shit wouldn'ta been the first time, boy," the Centaurian dismissed.

Glaring at his elder with half lidded eyes Peter let his right hand sink over his right eye and rest there. He was just beginning to wonder where his crew had run off to when-

"I am Groot."

Surprise filled him as he jerked his head to the right, removing his hand, to find Groot doing a little wiggly dance on the night table. He was sitting on the lip of his pot, little legs swinging back and forth and arms in the air.

"Groot!" he smiled, "Hey bud, how are you doing?"

"I am Groot!"

…

"Of course," Peter grimaced when he realized the team translator wasn't in the area.

"Get that dumb thing to shuddap, will yer?" Yondu rasped, flipping to the next page of his magazine.

The blond dealt him a glare and let Groot be.

Instead, he turned his attention to the hospital room he was in. This one was much better than the last; the floor and walls were clean, the sheets resting over him had been washed recently- judging from the smell and texture- and the room was well lit. He spared a glance over Yondu's shoulder to see a round port window built into the wall, heavy droplets of rain falling on the other side.

"Where the hell am I?" he asked.

"Xandar," his former boss was getting impatient, "Now shut yewr mouth and go back ta sleep, boy. I'm tryin'a read."

Incredulity spread across Peter's face and his voice raised its pitch, "You _just woke_ me up! What the hell are you telling me to back to sleep for?!"

But Yondu just kicked the bed again, immediately shushing the boy he'd raised – well mostly, he spurred a light coughing fit.

"Put yarself back together already, this is ridiculous." The Centaurian ignored the menacing vines that spread out of Groot's hands. If Peter had been sitting up he would have been swaying when he finished his battle for air.

Panting, the blond splayed a hand across his chest. Seems he wasn't as 100% as he felt. No, _now _he felt like he'd run a marathon, wrestled with Drax, and torn through the entire Spartax empire all in quick succession. Drowsiness came upon him like a slow turtle-spider from the Quartex Territories, spinning its web back over each sense.

"Oh, what the hell," he said breathlessly, weakness swallowing him up. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple as he settled. He swallowed thickly, a flash of pain to the left of his throat catching his attention. Peter tried to lift an arm and feel for a wound, as it simply felt like there was something there causing him blood loss, but a rough, calloused grip caught his forearm and forced it back down.

"Settle down, son," Yondu barked, "I spent a wealth of time and energy on yew these past few days, I ain't about to let yew ruin all that work."

A weak scoff, or maybe it was a cough, came out of Peter's throat and Groot hummed beside him, the crackle of his movements signaling a shift in his posture. It took a little more effort than he knew it should have to turn his head and watch the growing sapling open his arms, crane his head back, and close his eyes. He would have asked the little guy what he was doing but if he'd learned one thing about Groot in the time that they'd been living together it was that he never got the explanation he was looking for.

As sleep began to pull him in, reeling him back down slowly, Peter turned his groggy gaze to the creature beside him. Yondu was becoming a blur so he blinked a few times to clear his vision.

"Why the hell do yew keep saving me?" he found himself asking, much to his surprise.

Yondu looked positively offended at that, even slapping his magazine shut to give Peter the full extent of his glare. But the funny thing about oncoming sleep is that it tended to take away your ability to care.

"I'm startin' to hope that yew got an answer for that, boy, 'cause I'm getting mighty fuckin' sick of it!"

It didn't really help, but Peter raised both eyebrows, "It's almost starting to look like you care."

"Like _hell _I do, boy!" Yondu growled but it somehow felt far less menacing than usual, "Yew got any idea how far I had to go to get yew _proper _help? These Xandarian scum don't know shit about yewr kind. Yew godda hell of a debt to pay off. I ain't lettin' yew take the easy way out."

"Right, 'course," Peter slurred, feeling the pull of sleep a little harder to resist now.

Yondu snapped his magazine back open and kicked his feet up on the edge of the bed, jolting its occupant a little. Quill grunted but managed to settle without too much fuss.

"You're an ass, you know," he muttered, voice quiet, "but its not too bad knowing you got my back sometimes."

"Shaddup, son, I'd kill yew in an instant." retaliated Yondu. A soft chuckle strained Peter's throat and drew an exhausted shudder out of him. As he felt himself falling back, he thought he heard one last thing come out of Yondu's foul mouth, "S' not like yew got anyone else anyway."

* * *

><p><em>[19:55 – Wed. – SY: XXXX]<em>

_[Xandar – Trepan Hospital – Recovery Wing – Room 304]_

_[Peter]_

Sleep was such a wonderful thing. It was encompassing, kind, soft, and blissful.

It's just too bad that Peter never seemed to wake up to said bliss.

He awoke to the sound of voices and approaching feet.

"Is this D'astard _still _sleeping?!"

Rustle.

"I am Groot."

Whisper.

"So what if he's had a hard week? So have I and you don't see me passed out in a hospital bed!"

Click. Click. Click.

"Dr. Maleki said he'd been told Peter would be exhausted after everything his body has gone through. Seems that Terrans do a lot of sleeping when they recover."

The sound of a chair being pulled out reached his ears.

"_Told?_ So he didn't make that judgment himself, did he?" A weight arrived next to his feet and he sighed softly.

He was getting less drowsy as the conversation continued.

"No-"

Clomp, clomp.

"Then why the hell should we trust him?"

Shuffle.

"Rocket-"

The sound of weight in a creaky chair.

"I mean, look what happened the last time we did that!"

Peter almost wanted to cringe, ears not totally accustomed to such noise after such a long time of sleeping in gentle quiet.

There was a moment of swift silence and prickling gazes.

"Dey was there with them. He watched Dr. Schaffer and Dr. Maleki discuss Peter's condition." He recognized Gamora's voice now and had to resist the urge to yawn.

"Oh yeah? And where the hell did this 'Dr. Schaffer' or whatever run off to?" It wasn't hard to tell Rocket's voice apart from everyone else's.

"I agree, his vacancy is somewhat worrisome." Oh, even Drax was there.

"I believe Dey said Prime had sent a few Nova Corpsmen to escort him back to Earth when Peter's condition improved on Sunday."

"I am Groot." Again, not hard.

A click.

The creak of a door opening.

A snap as it shut.

The sound of a throat being cleared.

"Gamora is right. If Dr. Schaffer had been missing from Earth for much longer he says there would have been complications. Something about having to go to work on Monday." Oh, Dey had arrived.

Guh, so no more sleep, probably. These guys weren't gunna finish and shut up so he might as well wake up.

Rocket scoffed. "How did the guy even _get _here anyway?" No-one noticed Peter tense and stretch a little, flexing his muscles without moving his arms or legs anywhere.

There was a following sigh, "Yondu kidnapped him."

And thereabouts was where Peter drew the line.

Shock speared through him so fast he was hardly aware of how quickly he jolted up into a sitting position, "Yondu _kidnapped someone?!"_

He surprised Drax so bad the poor guy leapt back and drew both his blades. And Groot shed a full layer of young bark, shards peppering the side of Peter's arm. Every hair on Rocket's body immediately stood on end, making him look like a ball of fluff. Even Gamora reached for her half-sword but didn't draw it.

"Holy fuck, man!" Rocket yelped. But Peter wasn't listening, too busy holding his head and trying not to fall over. His back stung, a fresh wound he couldn't remember receiving stretched a little too quickly and his muscles ached, but not painfully.

"Peter?" Gamora was beside him in an instant, reaching out to steady him. He heard Drax sheath his weapons and approach as well.

"Ugh," He moaned, "Where the hell have _you _guys been? And who did Yondu kidnap?"

They collectively hesitated.

"I am Groot!" Groot offered and, gaining control of his sense of equilibrium Peter took a hand from his head and smiled at him.

"Yeah, thanks little guy, but that doesn't help me much." He turned his attention upwards and met Dey's eyes first. The sheer, overwhelming amount of relief in the kind man's eyes almost blew him away. The curly haired man smiled welcomingly.

"You've been treated for morphalite syndrome in the Trepan Hospital on Xandar. Yondu, being the criminal that he is, went to Earth, kidnapped a Terran doctor and forced him to treat you." Peter bit his lip and felt the color wash out of his face.

_Shit, shit, shit, _Yondu hadn't been messing around when he'd said he had a debt to pay. A groan leaked out of him and Peter tilted back, flopping onto the mattress and covering his face with the pillow.

"Fuck," he said, voice muffled, "Now I _really _owe that bastard."

He felt Rocket's paw slap against his knee, "you owe us too, asshole. _We _flew across the galaxy and stormed a medical facility on Knowhere for you!"

The heavy sound of approaching boots stopped beside the bed while Gamora reached forward to pull the pillow off her childish leader's face.

As soon as his face was revealed Drax met his gaze and nodded sagely, "you have been avenged."

"How is that reassuring?"

Drax just looked confused. And Peter couldn't find it in him to be mad.

"I am Groot?"

"Yeah, we did," Rocket replied, smug, "I even got to use my new laser pulse cannon."

"You guys are seriously gratuitously violent," Peter deadpanned.

A huff drew itself out of Gamora as she plopped down in a chair set beside the bed- the one Yondu had occupied before.

"Those healers on Knowhere were apparently former followers of Ronan," she reported, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, "They were hoping to spread your sickness faster than it could be treated."

Now it was Rocket's turn to scoff and plop down on the mattress next to Peter's right side. He hadn't exactly been prepared for the little creature to grab the hem of his loose hospital-issued pants and pull them up, peaking at the flesh beneath. He got a quick examination of the forming tissue right above where Peter's appendix would have been before the human wormed away.

"Woah, Rocket, what the hell, man?!" The flush on Peter's face didn't escape Rocket's notice and he sniggered.

"Pretty lucky you didn't need that," he grinned, "there are a lot of species out there that do."

Peter had a reprimand on the tip of tongue, but then he caught the look of relief in Rocket's eyes and it shattered any irritation he'd held. He swallowed and shoved his elbows into the mattress, stiffly pulling himself up into a sitting position.

Geeze, recovery was going to be such a pain.

"What exactly happened?" he asked instead, "How long have I been out for?"

Eyes turned on Dey, "You were given a kidney transplant a few days ago. But you've been at the hospital for 168 hours."

Peter gave him a quizzical look, "Please tell me it was a Terran kidney."

A few smiles were lit around the room, "Yes it was human. I'm still not entirely sure how they knew it was compatible, though."

"If it came from Yondu, then it makes sense to me," he said with an exasperated sigh.

"What do you mean by that?" Gamora asked.

Peter waved the question away, "You don't want to know."

She frowned but did not persist.

As Rocket tried to explain to Drax that Peter was trying to tell Gamora not to ask that question and not that she'd suddenly and inexplicably decided she was uninterested in his answer, a question rose to the forefront of Peter's mind. It was like bile swelling in the back of his throat, an unappetizing, gunky, undesirable inquiry he wasn't too sure he wanted an answer to.

He swallowed and turned his gaze to Dey, "So, what's the status on the whole morphalite syndrome thing?"

The room went quiet, clear anticipation in the air.

So he wasn't the only one left in the dark about it.

As though on cue the door opened and a well-statured man hobbled into the room. He had the slightest of limps and an aged face, smile lines evident around his mouth. When he saw Peter up and awake, his mouth curved into those lines.

"Why hello, how are you feeling?" he asked, his undivided attention suddenly all on his patient.

"Pretty good," Quill said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders.

"Very good," the doctor said and stepped forward, "My name is Maleki Akai, I'm the one who's helping you get back on your feet." For the next ten or so minutes Peter endured several tests seemingly designed to strip him of whatever reserves of energy he had. When they were finished and he was busy yawning, scrubbing an itch on the back of his head, the doctor sat back on his heels and scrolled through a data pad. "Yes, you are looking much better," Maleki confirmed with a proud smile on his face.

"Is he all clear?" Rocket asked hesitantly, shushing Drax when he began to ask what that meant.

Maleki hummed, letting Peter lean back into his pillows without comment. He was exhausted and wanted only to dive back into the beautiful throngs of well-earned rest. The world around him was blurring at the edges, his lashes fluttering. Wow, this was ridiculous. The voices were beginning to echo and his body felt heavy.

"Not quite," the Xandarian doctor said eventually and no-one seemed to notice as Peter fell asleep, "We'll keep him here at the hospital for another week to be sure there aren't any issues with the transplant. Over the course of the next full Cycle I want him to come in for regular check-ups so we can monitor that kidney." He scrolled down a little and started adding in information to Peter's file, "At the end of the week I will give him a few pills to take with him. They'll help with his subcostal nerve as it grows back and keep the healing process clean. And-"

Gamora, of course, was the first one to notice Peter's stillness.

"Peter?" She asked, voice quiet.

He didn't reply. Eyes closed, head back, chest rising and falling steadily, he remained unresponsive.

"Quill?" Rocket tried this time, his voice a whisper.

"It seems he has fallen back into the void," Drax rumbled.

"What the hell does that mean?" his smaller comrade demanded, "You make it sound like he just died!" Dey smiled weakly at the two of them when Gamora shushed them and Peter stirred.

Maleki glanced at the monitors and smiled, "He's fallen asleep." Pressing a finger into the center of the data pad the screen went dark and he tucked it under his arm, "As I said we will continue to monitor him for a few days but then he'll be free to go. You should let him rest for now. I, on the other hand, have other patients to see." He turned to the door but stopped and looked back at them before leaving, "I'll be seeing you. Be well." And then he closed the door.

Peter recovered fairly quickly- but it only seemed that way on paper. To both the captain and his crew each day was an eternity. For the StarLord it was because he was bloody sick and tired of lying in bed. For everyone else it was because they were bloody sick and tired of listening to him bemoan the fact that he was sick and tired of being in bed. But he got a little quieter after Drax threatened to knock him out again.

And when he was discharged he waited, and waited, and waited for Yondu to call him up and force him to do something. He anticipated, on the edge of his seat, forgetting to take his pills and thoroughly irritating Gamora.

But Yondu never called.

Not a week later, not two, not three. Soon, as the Guardians began to pick up jobs again, he forgot about it. And by the time Peter was completely recovered from his cancer months later he stopped caring.

He'd survived.

Peter Jason Quill had survived _everything _that had happened.

And that was all that really mattered.

**The End.**

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><p><em>Oh goodness, finally. I hope the ending doesn't seem too rushed but I have to get back to work and school is starting up for me. It needed to come to an end somewhere and I thought this would be the best place. <em>

_Thanks for all the follows, favorites, and reviews everyone! I am so flattered to find that so many people enjoyed this fic. :)_

_Until next time,_

_Cheers!_


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